Worse Than Death
by ASF13957
Summary: Draco Malfoy is depressed and looking for something to do with his life.  After a chance encounter in Azkaban, he has an idea for what that might be.  Warning: has some rather dark subject matter.  Please R&R.
1. Chapter I

Hey. So this is a rather long, faintly sappy story which I will be adding chapters to frequently. I've already written more than half of it, but have not yet gone over it for grammar and spelling errors. Hopefully you'll enjoy it.

Temporal explanation: This is set after the ending of Deathly Hallows, but prior to the epilogue.

Rating: It's on the upper end of T. Mild language, some violence and gore, and a lot of dark/depressing content.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, locations, terms, etc. specific to the Harry Potter universe. The only OCs are Stevie and Vincent, and a couple of extras.

* * *

A light breeze whipped my robes out behind me as I flew towards Azkaban prison to visit my father. I did so once every two weeks, alternating with Mother. Father still had about four years left to his sentence.

I gazed down at my reflection in the dark, rippling ocean water below. I looked even paler than usual in the dim light of the full winter moon.

_The full moon – Fenrir Greyback. He'd torn the muggle woman to shreds right in front of us, the Dark Lord and I, and my companion was laughing his terrible cold laugh…_

I jerked my thoughts away from Greyback with a start. Azkaban was looming up out of the sea mists ahead, and I veered slightly to aim for the spot of light at its base that marked the only entrance in the magical wall surrounding the prison. As I reached it, I came to a halt and slid off my broomstick, walking towards the four Aurors who waited in the magical gateway.

"Who is it?" asked one of them gruffly, raising his wand.

"Draco Malfoy," I answered, holding up my hands to show I was unarmed. My wand was in my pocket, and the Auror, whom I thought I recognized as Dawlish, took it carefully and placed it in a box. The other Aurors came over, and cast a variety of dispelling and canceling charms to confirm that I was not an imposter.

"You can go in," said Dawlish at last, when they had finished their inspection. "You're here to see your father, I presume?"

I nodded.

"He hasn't been moved from last time you visited," he informed me, before gesturing at the magical gate, which disappeared in a wisp of silver fog. I walked through and entered Azkaban itself, a tall stone building with few windows and only one door. Through this I proceeded, and then ascended a stone staircase to the eighth floor. Turning left, I continued down a long, shadowy hallway.

_Shadows were everywhere in the cold drawing room – the Dark Lord had no desire for any light other than that which shone from his own wand. He pointed it at the old man lying on the floor, the man who had made both my own hawthorn wand and the wand which was now being used to torture him, and he screamed in a hoarse, cracking voice, while I stood there frozen and watched, and did nothing…_

I shook myself out of my morbid thoughts as I reached the end of the hall, and looked into the cell immediately to my left. Father was in there, reading a week-old edition of the _Daily Prophet_. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps, and then came over to the bars, smiling wanly but with genuine happiness.

"Hello, Draco."

"Father. How are you?"

"I'm actually quite well, thank you. Without the Dementors here, Azkaban isn't that bad. The Aurors guarding this section will sometimes come over and have a chat, too."

I looked back along the hallway. Aurors were posted at intervals along it, looking bored but alert.

"How's Narcissa?"

"Mother's well. She's staying with Andromeda Tonks."

"Really? How… intriguing. Ah well. And you, Draco?" he said, looking closely at me. "How have you been lately?"

"I'm fine," I told him, which was at least partially true. "I'm staying at the manor, trying to get rid of the things that were brought in during the war, repairing or replacing any damaged furniture…"

"I see. What else are you doing, though? That is, have you thought about what you're going to do with your life – now that certain career options have been eliminated by circumstance?"

"Not really," I answered honestly. "I didn't think much about it during school, since we always assumed I was going to be a Death Eater."

"I know," he said, suddenly looking serious. "I'm sorry for that, Draco. You were following in my footsteps, and it hasn't exactly turned out very well."

"It's alright," I said, reaching through the cell bars to grasp his shoulder. "Let's not talk about that, okay?"

"Very well." He was silent for a moment, and then returned to the earlier subject. "Have you considered work at the Ministry?"

"No. The Ministry's primary concern right now is rebuilding what was lost during the war, a prospect that I don't find incredibly inviting. Besides, I doubt if I'd be very welcome, considering. And I must admit, Father, that I'm still… fascinated, in a way, by the Dark Arts. I know what they can do, and even having seen the uses the Dark Lord put them to, I can't help but think that ignoring them is a great waste."

"Perhaps," my father said, sighing. We spoke for a while about magic, and then about people and times, past and present. At last, I said farewell and departed down the hall.

I was passing the third floor on my way back down the staircase when I froze, hearing a familiar voice shouting from the hall on the right. Memories flooded through my head, and I stood unmoving on the steps.

_"Of course, Bellatrix, my dear. I shall see you tonight." Rudolphus departed through the beautiful door of my home, leaving his wife in the drawing room with Pettigrew and I. She turned and gave Pettigrew an awful, mad grin._

_ "Fetch that mudblood we captured earlier today, Peter." The ratlike man scurried away and I was left alone in the room with my disturbed aunt._

_ "Draco, darling," she smiled, grasping my arm with her long fingernails digging into my skin, "why don't you do this one?"_

_ Pettigrew appeared in the doorway, levitating a man bound with dark ropes of magic. I raised my wand, my hand shaking, and hesitated. My aunt turned her deranged gaze on me and hissed at me to hurry up._

_ I yelled, "Crucio!"_

Jolting back to the present, I ran on down the stairs, away from Rudolphus Lestrange's shrieking voice. I was so rattled that I missed the exit and ended up at the very bottom of the staircase, in the basement.

I paused, catching my breath. I had never been down here before; the basement housed prisoners considered relatively low-risk. This might have been due to the very remote possibility that one could tunnel out; the magical wall did not extend below ground, although it would take a very determined, active, and cunning prisoner to dig through several hundred feet of solid rock, with only their fingernails or the occasional tin spoon, while Aurors stood guard in the passage outside, and _then _to swim the many miles to shore with no magical aid.

Most of the cells were unoccupied; in the aftermath of the war, petty crimes were mostly overlooked due to the much more dangerous criminals, ex-Death Eaters and similar, who were still on the run. I spotted only one Auror, a young woman with dark skin and hair. I wandered over in her direction.

"Hello," she said, looking curiously at me.

"Hello," I replied. I could have gone back up the stairs and departed, but didn't feel like doing so just yet. My mind was still clouded with memories of the previous year. "I'm sorry, there's no particular reason I'm down here – merely idle curiosity. Who are you?"

"Stevie Paulson. You?"

"Draco Malfoy." I was not sure if my name would cause an unfriendly reaction, but she seemed unaffected by it.

"Oh yes," she said, shaking my hand. "I assume you're visiting your father here?"

"That's correct." I looked around at the basement. Gloomy as the rest of Azkaban was, at least it was dry and had a few windows. Here, the walls were damp with salt water, and the only light came from a few grills on the ceiling, through which a dim, colorless glow from the floor above filtered down.

"How many people are down here?" I inquired, gathering from the Auror's presence that there were some, although I had seen no one.

"Four," she answered. "Mundungus Fletcher is down the end of this passage, he's only here for another couple of weeks. The infamous McCarter sisters are off the same hall on the right. They're in for a little longer, we've been looking for them quite a while. Their latest escapade was looting a morgue. At the end of the passage on the other side is Barty Crouch, Jr."

The name was familiar. "Wait," I said slowly, "wasn't he involved in the Longbottom affair? And the Triwizard Tournament… I would have thought he'd be in a high security cell."

"Yeah, well, he got the Dementor's Kiss," Stevie told me, grimacing. "He just sits there, doesn't do anything really."

I had seen someone Kissed by a Dementor once. It was an old mudblood – no, we were calling them muggle-borns now, weren't we – an old muggle-born woman who had been too inquisitive, given too much information to the public about the Dark Lord's operations.

_We had gone to her house in the middle of the night, the Dark Lord and Rookwood and I, and the Dementors, they had come too; gliding silently through the darkness, like great grey moths, their approach bringing icy strands of fear and despair that wormed their way into my mind. We'd found her in her bedroom, just roused from sleep but with her wand out, already made aware of our visit by the Dementors' cold presence. The Dark Lord had disarmed her, though, before she could fire off a spell, and one of the great grey shapes had swooped down on her, its… face, if you could call it that, close to hers. I had heard it take a long, rattling breath, and then something bright had emerged from her lips and drifted in the air for a moment before the Dementor sucked it into the gaping black hole beneath its hood. Her soul had looked like a spark, floating there in front of me…_

They had never even told me her name.

"Can I see him?" I asked. Stevie looked askance at me. I couldn't blame her; it was an odd request, and she probably thought I was a bit sick for making it.

"Er… okay. Dunno why you'd want to, though."

She pointed me in the right direction, and I walked back around the stairs and down the opposite hall. I stopped at a cell near the end and looked in.

A youngish, light haired man was sitting slumped against one wall. His eyes stared blankly at the stone across from him, although I doubted he saw it. He looked dead. I said his name, but he didn't move at all.

I returned to where Stevie was standing in the other hallway.

"Hey," I said. "Er, would you mind if I asked you some things?"

"No. Can't promise I'll answer, though."

"Right – it's nothing classified. I just wanted to know – he sits there and doesn't move at all, right?"

"That's right."

"So… how come he's still alive? When does he eat?"

"He doesn't," she told me. "Doesn't eat or sleep or move. Sometimes I go in there and shift him to the other wall or something. Changes the decor a little."

I felt that this was a bit tasteless, but then, she did have very boring job.

"So how is he alive?"

"Not sure. I'm not a Dementor expert, I dunno how it works."

"Oh. Well, thanks, Stevie. It was nice meeting you."

"Likewise," she said, although I suspected she didn't mean it. I went up the stairs, retrieved my wand from the Aurors at the gate, and flew back slowly to Malfoy Manor, thinking.

* * *

Well, there's the first chapter. Please review, any and all input you might have is welcome.


	2. Chapter II

Okay, here's the second chapter. Hopefully there are no typos. The disclaimer from the first chapter still applies, and will do so for all the chapters.

* * *

Over the next few days, as I tried to repair a very valuable, slightly illegal antique flying carpet, my mind kept drifting back to my visit to Azkaban and the short conversation with Stevie. I had never had much of an interest in Dementors before, being mainly preoccupied with staying away from them as much as possible, but now I started wondering all kinds of things relating to them and their activities. For example: were they immortal? If not, then how would one kill a Dementor? What, exactly, did they do with the happy memories and the souls that they sucked out of people? I was so absorbed by these musings I failed to notice that I was thinking much less often of the previous, nightmarish year which had been plaguing my thoughts and my dreams so frequently.

One dull, rainy day I traveled by Floo powder (although I was able to apparate, doing so in crowded areas was often less than advisable) to Knockturn Alley, in London. The Dark Arts counterpart of Diagon Alley looked very different than it had during my school years; many of the more sinister shops were closed, and the ones remaining had taken down most of the darker aspects of their window displays. At last, I reached a small, rather grim storefront sandwiched between two larger buildings. Its sign read 'Used Bookstore' in peeling gold paint on a cracked black background.

I entered the establishment, looking around curiously. I had never been in here before, preferring the newer, larger bookstores in Diagon Alley. It was narrow, but the room in which I stood extended quite far back from the street, and I glimpsed another door at the end. The walls were lined with tall, dusty bookshelves filled by crumbling tomes with odd, foreign titles. I could read passably in several different languages and could recognize many others, but a good percentage of the ones represented here in the titles were totally unknown to me.

"Can I help you?" asked a voice, and I turned left to see a slender, brown-haired man step out from behind a shelf. He was giving me a friendly smile, but there was something slightly creepy about him. It took me a moment to figure out what it was – the man's age was almost impossible to guess at. He could have been anywhere from my own age of eighteen to perhaps thirty-five years old.

_Why are all the people who work in Knockturn Alley strange?_ _Is it because they're dark wizards who've experimented one too many times with dangerous magic? Or do they _become _dark wizards because people treat them oddly due to their peculiarity? _I wondered to myself.

"I'm not entirely sure, actually," I said, smiling faintly back at the man.

"You're Draco Malfoy, no?" he asked unexpectedly.

"Yes – I'm sorry, have we met?"

"I doubt it, but your father came in here once. You look a lot like one another."

"Ah. Who are you?"

"Vincent," he replied, and I felt a twinge in my chest. One of my two best friends had been named Vincent, but he had died, in the final battle between the Dark Lord and the forces supporting Harry Potter.

"Vincent Wulfgar," he finished, and the feeling faded a little. This man looked nothing like Crabbe, anyway. "Are you looking for anything in particular, or a genre of thing, or what?"

"I'm looking for information about Dementors," I told him. "Do you have any books that might have that?"

"I do. What kind of information? I've got historical accounts of when they've influenced major events, I've got fiction (though that doesn't sound like what you want), I've got studies of their life… existence, and their powers."

"The last, I think. I'm looking for accuracy over readability, so whatever the most reliable texts you've got on the subject are, they're what I'm looking for."

"Interesting," he said, and then proceeded off down the shelves. He selected volumes every once in a while, eventually returning to the front with a stack of five very old books, which he placed with a thump on a desk near the door. "These top three," he said, "are all pretty detailed studies on different aspects of Dementors; the next one's an account of people who've been affected by them. The last one's a bit dotty, it's centuries old, but it has some interesting theories on the Kiss. It's not specifically about Dementors, focuses more on souls in general. It's got horcruxes in it," he added, glancing at me.

I nodded and paid for the books, which Vincent Wulfgar deposited in a bag so they wouldn't get rained on. Thanking the slightly creepy, but very helpful bookseller, I exited the shop and proceeded back to the manor by way of Borgin and Burke's. Once there I leafed through the books I'd just purchased. They were not pleasant reading, but I became more and more intrigued, albeit in a morbid fashion, by what I found in them; the one about souls was especially fascinating. I also spent several hours working on Legilimancy, a skill taught to me by Severus Snape, but which I had not practiced since his death.

The next time I went to visit my father in Azkaban, I asked the Aurors if I could retain my wand. They didn't confiscate wands from everyone; high-ranking Ministry officials were not typically disarmed. Dawlish was not particularly happy with the idea, but informed me I could keep the wand provided I had two Aurors with me at all times. I accepted the condition, though as I did not need the wand to talk to my father I left it with the two Aurors while I proceeded to his cell.

We spoke for a while about various topics, but eventually he again brought up the issue of my future.

"Have you not thought of anything yet? It doesn't need to be a career, it can be a hobby if you wish – you know we have enough money for that, and the investments the family has made are still paying us well. You can do nothing at all, if you want; I'm just concerned that you're stuck dwelling on the past."

"I know. I'm not, honestly. Actually I have a hobby of sorts now." I explained about my research of Dementors and souls.

"That's… different," he said at last. "I wish you well with it, but even the Dark Lord lacked knowledge about a great portion of soul-related lore, and he had six horcruxes. Or seven, if you believe that rumor about Potter being a horcrux."

"I know, Father, but I don't think he was that interested in it. His aim was immortality, not investigating the mysteries of the soul."

My point was valid, and I think Father was somewhat reassured as to my psychological well-being. We spent the rest of the time conversing on other subjects. Eventually I left and walked down the staircase to the basement, recovering my wand from the Aurors on the way.

Stevie was standing guard again – I assumed she, like Dawlish, was on duty certain days of the week. I always visited on Friday, so it was natural I would run into the same personnel every time.

I walked over to her somewhat nervously. The request I had to make of her was, like last time, distinctly odd, and I was worried she might say it was unethical. I personally had thought about this aspect on the way to Azkaban, and had concluded that, while it was certainly unusual and possibly really twisted, it was alright morally.

"Hi, Stevie. How are you?" It was a unique characteristic of the young Auror that one's mind automatically labeled her as 'Stevie' and not 'Paulson' or similar. She simply _was _a Stevie.

"I'm fine, thanks. You?"

"Fine as well. I was wondering if you'd let me do something."

"If it's 'read me _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea'_, then the answer's no. I may be bored, but I'm not _that _bored." She grinned. I didn't get it, probably because it was a muggle reference or something, but I smiled in reply, and felt slightly less anxious about the request.

"It isn't that. Actually, I was wondering if I could have another look at Crouch, and possibly try some Legilimancy on him."

Stevie didn't look angry, but she _did _look very surprised. After a few seconds an expression of concern joined the surprised one.

"I – well, I suppose there's nothing wrong with it, they already used Veritaserum before the Dementor's Kiss, and for all intents and purposes he's dead anyway – but seriously, why would you want to? You do know that someone who's been given the Kiss is stuck reliving the worst memories of their life over and over again? Which means if you try Legilimancy it isn't going to be pleasant?"

"Yeah, I know. I read up. It's for academic purposes."

She shook her head doubtfully. "Your funeral."

Both Stevie and my Auror escorts accompanied me over to Barty Crouch Jr.'s cell. I noticed that he was resting against the opposite wall from last time, and assumed Stevie had moved him there.

"Do you want to go in?" asked Stevie. I nodded. She took out her wand and muttered a complicated sequence of spells, before using an old fashioned key to open the lock itself. I went in and sat down across from Crouch. Drawing out my wand, I said, "Legilimens."

_We were alone in a dark bedroom, and he was crying because his father was disappointed with him again, had told him he wasn't trying hard enough again… We were surrounded by happy, celebrating people, and he was standing there in blank shock. They'd just told him the Dark Lord had been defeated… We were in a courtroom, and Crouch was being carried off by Dementors. He looked back and saw his father's face, which held nothing but disgust… We were here, in Azkaban, a different cell, and he was rocking back and forth and feeling his mind slip away from him while Bellatrix laughed madly in the next chamber over… We were in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, and the Dementor was leaning down over him, and sucking in a slow, rattling breath…_

I think I lost my head a bit at that point. The things I was seeing were bad enough, but the emotions that stabbed through me while I watched were too much for me to take – Barty Crouch Jr.'s emotions, presumably, but the spell made them feel like my own.

I jerked my wand down, but my mind was stuck, it wouldn't snap out of it, only it was my own memory that I was trapped inside now.

_The Vanishing Cabinet had to work this time, I'd spent so long on it, and I stepped back, every muscle tensed, as I waited, forcing myself to count to ten. I jerked the cabinet open, but the bird I had tested it on was dead, and a wave of despair flooded over me… Harry Potter laughed at the Dark Lord and said that Snape hadn't owned the Elder Wand, that I had, and so killing Snape had been entirely unnecessary, and I realized that it was my fault that Snape, my best and only friend among the Death Eaters, was dead… The body of the Muggle Studies professor rotated slowly over the – _

"Mr. Malfoy!"

_Over the table, at which the Dark Lord sat, pointing his wand up at – _

"Mr. Malfoy! Hello!"

_And there was a flash of green light and then the snake – _

"Mr. Malfoy!"

My eyes flew open. Someone was shaking my shoulders very hard. With difficulty, I focused and identified the person as Stevie.

"What?" I mumbled, realizing as I said it that my cheeks were wet, and that my hands were clutched together around my knees so hard it hurt.

"Are you alright?" She looked anxious. The other Aurors, peering in from their positions outside the cell, shared similar looks of alarm. I slowly uncoiled myself and stood up, leaning on the wall. Across from me, Crouch's apathetic expression had not changed in the slightest.

"Yeah, I'm fine. No, that's a lie. I'm not fine, but I will be in a minute." I shut my eyes and leaned against the wall, listening to my heart slow down as I considered what had just happened. I supposed that I had been simply overwhelmed by the sheer concentrated force of all that negative emotion, and my mind had been trapped in a pattern, or something, of bad memories.

After a few moments I opened my eyes again and looked at Stevie.

"Thank you for shaking me. Would you be so kind as to wait outside the cell?"

"You're welcome. Why?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm going to have another go."

"You can't be serious." She stared at me in disbelief.

"Apparently I can. Yes, I know, I'm barking, but there it is." I was feeling slightly hysterical. Drawing out my wand, I slid down the wall until I was facing Crouch once more. Stevie shook her head, but she stepped out of the cell again, giving me some room.

"Legilimens."

More memories, different than the ones I'd seen before but no more enjoyable, flashed through my head. This time, though, I focused, sorting through the images until I'd isolated just one; I had seen this one before.

_The Dementor leaned down over him, sucking in a slow, rattling breath…_

Dimly, I heard someone calling my name, and waved my hand at them to signal that I was alright. More tears were coursing down my face, but I held on to the memory, forcing it to play out again in my mind.

_The Dementor leaned down over him… I could see its face, and this time I was still watching as Barty Crouch's soul drifted up out of his mouth and disappeared into the black, sucking darkness beneath the Dementor's hood. I watched as the spark vanished, but took careful note that it did not dim as it floated out of sight._

I opened my eyes and smiled. It was not a happy smile, but it was a grimly satisfied one. I stood up, pocketing my wand, and turned to the Aurors.

"I've got what I wanted. We can go." They looked askance at me but nodded. Before I left the cell to follow them back out of Azkaban I paused, and, turning, gave Barty Crouch Jr.'s shoulder a squeeze.

We reached the bottom of the stairwell, Stevie catching up after she'd renewed the spells on the door and locked it.

"You're mad, you know," she told me.

"Possibly," I admitted. It was true I had a reason for putting myself through the experience I'd just undergone, a reason she was unaware of, but it was really nothing more than a whim. Perhaps she was right, and I was mad, but at least it wasn't in the way that Bellatrix had been mad. At least I didn't kill people for the fun of it; the only person getting hurt was me.

Back at Malfoy Manor, I paced back and forth in the drawing room. I picked up a book, the really old one I'd bought in Knockturn Alley, and leafed through its yellowed pages. At last I found the part I was looking for.

The book had presented three hypotheses for what happened to a soul taken by a Dementor. The first, that the Dementor consumed the soul as nourishment, I dismissed out of hand. Far too few people were Kissed to possibly satisfy the number of Dementors that I knew existed.

The second and third options were more plausible. One was that the Dementor consumed the soul out of enjoyment rather than necessity, as if it were a drug of sorts. The other was that the Dementor simply kept the soul within itself, never consuming it, but drawing strength and… and whatever else Dementors wanted or required, from it.

Now, having seen Barty Crouch's memory, I was inclined to believe the second hypothesis. The soul had not dimmed as the Dementor sucked it in, and I doubted that the creature had to… _digest_ a soul. Of course, I could very easily be mistaken. I was far from an expert, and even the ancient witches and wizards who had written the books I consulted had admitted they knew very little about Dementors for certain.

I decided to return to Knockturn Alley. Arriving at the used bookstore, I pulled open the door and entered, greeting Vincent Wulfgar as he appeared from behind a shelf.

"Have the books you got last time been helpful?" he asked me.

"Yes, enormously. Actually, they're the reason I'm here – they gave me an idea and I was wondering whether you have any books that might give me the information to confirm or disprove it."

"I'll do my best. You're my most valued customer, you know."

"I am?" I said, baffled.

"Yeah; no one else has ever bought five books from this place. Plus, you're back again. That's unusual. My bookstore mainly contains books on pretty obscure subjects. Most people aren't interested in them. Anyway, what kind of information are you looking for?"

"Specifically? I want to know what happens to a person's soul after it's been sucked out by a Dementor."

He raised his eyebrows. "How interesting. Yes, that is pretty specific. I might have a few books that deal with it –" he was already proceeding down the lines of shelves "– but that's a theoretical subject at best. I can't promise you cold, hard facts."

I nodded as he pulled three books off the shelves.

"This one speculates that the Dementor consumes the soul as a source of power. It talks about what type of… no? Okay, this one here gets a little weird, says the soul just drifts right through the Dementor and into death, or whatever… no. I reckon it's a bit barmy myself." He held up the last book, a very thin volume bound in black dragon skin. "This one claims the Dementor retains the soul. The beginning is pretty convincing, but it gets bizarre towards the end – chap who wrote it had a wife who was Kissed, at the end he explains how he's setting out to get her soul back for her."

"Did he?"

"No. He got Kissed as well, and eventually some kind-hearted cousin killed both of them." He was serious about the kind-hearted thing, too; I gathered that someone so knowledgeable about Dementor lore knew exactly how bad the effects of the Kiss were.

"I'll get that one, then," I decided. Vincent Wulfgar nodded, and I left the bookstore with the happy thought that I was really getting somewhere with this project. It was only after I'd arrived back at the manor that I realized this was the first really happy thought I'd had since the end of my fifth year at Hogwarts.

* * *

Well, there it is. Depressing, yes? Oh well. As always, I'd appreciate any reviews.


	3. Chapter III

This one's a little lighter, I think. Disclaimer still applies, etc.  


* * *

I read through the book in a day, and although it was less helpful than I would have liked, it gave me some definite ideas to start with. The author suggested that it was indeed possible to return a missing soul to its original owner. He even claimed, in the later chapters, to have done this for a young girl who had run afoul of a Dementor, but by that time his writing quite strongly suggested he was well on along the road to insanity, so I didn't place too much faith in the account.

Still, in his saner passages he recommended ways to locate the Dementor which held the particular soul one desired to find. As the soul in question was that of his wife, things got slightly sentimental, often involving the author breaking down and blubbering to his apathetic wife about how much he loved her, but I managed to sift out what I believed were the basics. It boiled down to the theory that one had to spend a lot of time near the person whose soul was missing, get to know them (as far as that was possible given their condition), and then cast a number of dauntingly complicated spells that would enable one to sense the general direction of the Dementor currently in possession of the soul.

With this in mind, I decided to visit Azkaban ahead of schedule. Unfortunately my increasingly antisocial lifestyle had caused me to be entirely unaware of the fact that it was Christmas, and so for the first time in my experience, I had to wait in a queue at the entrance of Azkaban.

Ahead of me were three families, all of whom I knew vaguely as relatives of incarcerated former Death Eaters. Waiting as the Aurors checked Nott's son for illusion spells, I commented idly to the man next in line, "Azkaban is such a cheery place to spend your Christmas, isn't it?"

He turned around, startled, and I found myself looking into the green-eyed face of Harry Potter.

"Damn. Potter," I said. I wasn't sure yet how I felt about Harry Potter, the Hero of the Century, but I knew quite without doubt that I still disliked Harry Potter, My Obnoxious Former Schoolmate.

"Malfoy," he said, inclining his head stiffly in my direction. I responded in kind, noticing that Potter had grown a dreadful, messy beard since I'd last seen him. It made him look like a twit.

"Visiting your father?" he asked.

"No, actually."

"Come to put yourself in Azkaban, then?"

I smirked at that. "In your dreams. I'm here to see Barty Crouch Jr."

An expression of confusion appeared on his face. "Why in the world would you do that?" he asked.

"That's hardly your business. Why are _you _here?"

"I'm picking up Mundungus Fletcher. He's spending Christmas at my place."

"I'll remember to give him my sympathies."

We remained silent for the rest of the wait, until I reached the Aurors. Dawlish was not there, this not being a Friday, but I recognized one of the other Aurors.

"Are you keeping your wand with you this time?" he asked.

"No, thank you. Happy holidays." I proceeded into the prison.

I had not intended to visit my father, but now I was aware that it was Christmas I decided to drop in. Climbing the stairs, I had the unique experience of hearing one hallway's worth of Aurors singing a carol. It is not an experience I wish to repeat.

Father was surprised to see me, but pleasantly so, and we spent a few minutes in light conversation before I headed down to the basement. Potter was already there, presumably to pick up Fletcher. An old, grizzled Auror was on duty instead of Stevie, but his intimidating appearance was somewhat lightened by a jolly red and white hat. He nodded to me.

"Stevie mentioned you," he said when I approached.

"Oh yeah? What did she say?"

"That you were barmy but otherwise alright," he replied. I told him that I wholeheartedly agreed with this sentiment, and went to watch Potter and Fletcher, the latter of which had just been released from his cell.

"So it'll be just you and me, then, at Grimmauld Place?" said Fletcher, his hound dog eyes glinting. I remembered that Potter now lived in the Blacks' house; doubtless it contained many valuable items that Fletcher thought well worth stealing.

"No; Ginny will be there too," Potter replied. Apparently he and the Weasley girl were still dating. I approved; the gits deserved each other.

Fletcher's face fell. "Oh. Well. Suppose we'd better be off." He slowly made his way up the stairs. Potter turned to follow him and caught me smirking in his direction.

"Happy Christmas," he told me, apparently with great restraint.

"And to you." He left. I reflected that, had we not been watched by an Auror, Potter might well have had considerably more to say. It was a shame; I would have enjoyed tossing insults back and forth with him. Our relationship of mutual dislike would be a comforting reminder that not everything had changed since the war.

I turned and made my way to Crouch's cell, nodding at the Auror as I passed. He headed towards where the McCarter sisters were staying, presumably to share some merry holiday cheer. I sighed, realizing that my own visit was likely to be less than cheerful.

Reaching my destination, I sat down beside the cell and looked in at Crouch, who was now located in a corner.

"Hello," I told him. As expected, he didn't respond. "I'm just going to sit here and talk with – _to _you for a while, alright?"

Naturally, he didn't answer, so I continued. "I'm researching Dementors, you know. It's a surprisingly interesting hobby. It keeps my mind off things, too. Did you have any hobbies growing up? I don't know. Maybe you collected Chocolate Frog cards. A lot of people do that."

I paused. Talking to a completely unresponsive person felt rather odd, but it was also strangely relaxing; it wasn't as if he'd laugh or say he was bored.

"You turned me into a ferret once. I was just fourteen. It was quite a traumatic experience. Have you ever tried transforming into an animal? It feels bizarre. The muscle structure is all different. Of course, you took Polyjuice Potion for a year, so I guess you'd know more about transforming than I do."

I continued in this fashion for a couple of hours, chatting one-sidedly on various light topics. Eventually, I got up and said goodbye to him, heading off in the direction of the staircase. I met the Auror at its foot.

"Hello again, Mr. Malfoy. You've been here a while."

"Yeah. Is that a problem? If you want me to leave you can just come and tell me."

"No, it's no problem. Just wondering what you were doing."

"Having a conversation," I replied. "Happy holidays."

* * *

Sorry about the beard thing, but hey, they never said what Harry looked like in the epilogue... As always, reviews are welcome.


	4. Chapter IV

Okay, Chapter IV. Thanks to Amela333 for reviewing all three previous chapters; it's as if you're keeping up a running commentary, which is fun.

* * *

I visited Crouch nearly every other day for the next week. On Friday, I was in my room getting ready to set out again when I heard someone calling me from the drawing room. Entering the room, I saw my mother's head in the fire, giving me a call by Floo powder.

"Hello, Mother. What's going on?"

"What's going on is that you haven't been to see me in almost a month!" she replied, irritably. "Andromeda is out, so now is a good time. I'll see you in a few minutes."

She vanished. I sighed and put my broomstick back in its case. I wouldn't need it to get to Andromeda Tonks' house; unlike with Azkaban, one could apparate directly there.

I arrived in the kitchen of the Tonks' house. My mother was standing there next to a tall cabinet. She looked even thinner and less healthy than last time I'd seen her.

We sat down at the table and talked for a while. As we spoke, I watched her with growing concern. Mother had never fully recovered from the events of the battle; I thought it was probably the constant stress which had affected her. Since the Dark Lord's defeat, she'd been frail and nervous, finding it difficult to be alone for long periods of time.

After we'd been talking for a few hours, we heard the front door of the house open. I stood up, ready to depart. Although Andromeda had been willing enough to reconcile with her sister, and help take care of her in her current, fragile state, she'd been far less welcoming towards my father and me. I could not blame her; after all, she had lost a husband, a sister, a daughter, and a son in law due to the conflict between the Dark Lord and Potter's supporters.

Andromeda entered the kitchen and looked at me with slight hostility.

"I was just leaving," I told her, awkwardly. A thought struck me. "Can I talk to you for a minute first?"

She signaled her acquiescence with a stiff nod. We went into the next room and I shut the door behind us.

"Look," I told her quietly, "Is she… Is she alright, do you think?"

Andromeda raised her eyebrows. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do," I replied, annoyed. "Aunt, I realize you don't like me very much, but I can assure you I have only Mother's best interests at heart. You must have noticed how pale she's gotten. She looks sick."

Andromeda looked at me suspiciously for a moment, then sighed and nodded. "I know. It's the stress. Something just snapped, I think. I've thought about bringing her to St. Mungo's, but she seems oblivious to the fact that something's wrong with her, and I'm not sure I want to suggest there is. I don't know how she'd take it."

"Probably not well," I agreed. "What are you going to do, though? It's like she's fading into… I don't know. She hasn't been the same since the war."

"Well…" she considered. "I know a man who works at St. Mungo's. I suppose I could invite him over, have him take a look at her without her notice. He might be able to recommend something I could do."

"I think that would be wise. Thanks for your help."

Her expression was difficult to read. "You're welcome."

I said goodbye to Mother and disapparated back to the manor. From there, I flew to Azkaban.

I did not visit Father. Telling him about my mother's condition would only have worried him needlessly, and I didn't think I could see him without doing so; it was really preying on my mind. Instead, I headed straight for the basement, nodding absently to Stevie on my way to Barty Crouch's cell.

I sat down and gazed through the bars. "Hi again," I said to Crouch, who was, as usual, slumped apathetically in a corner. I didn't speak for a while; I was still thinking about Mother. A thought which had been lurking in the back of my mind was becoming more distinct, much as I tried to ignore it. _What if it's worse than it seems? I should have taken her to St. Mungo's. What if she dies? I don't think I can live with another person dying because of something I did._

"My mother's not well," I blurted out suddenly. "It's my fault; if I hadn't joined the Dark Lord none of this would have happened. What was it all for anyway? It was supposed to purify us, get rid of the mud – the muggle-borns contaminating the old bloodlines. Maybe we were wrong, though. I don't know. My world is turning upside down. They're just like us when they die. So many people died… Damn it. Damn. I don't know anything anymore. My father still thinks we were right." I paused and thought of something. "I don't blame him, even if he's wrong, you know. You killed your father – maybe he deserved it, after sending you to this place. I'm not exactly the best person to be making moral judgments. Maybe I would have killed him if I'd been you. Probably not. I don't know, though – you see, my father and I – we've always been – very close…" I swallowed and angrily swiped at a tear that had somehow appeared in my eye.

I took a deep breath and concentrated on watching Barty Crouch. After a few minutes, I felt I'd gotten myself back under control. "I wonder if that's why you joined the Death Eaters?" I said to the blank-eyed man slumped in his cell. "Because you didn't have a relationship with your father. I mean, we may not have gotten along, but I can't deny the Death Eaters were always a close-knit society. I suppose it was because we were all following the same ideals; the same leader, too. The Dark Lord –" I suddenly felt a flash of hot, unexpected anger. I was still calling him 'Lord', even after everything that had happened. I might be responsible for Mother's ill health, Snape's death, and many, many other horrible things, but I wasn't the only one. I wouldn't have done any of it if it hadn't been for that man, that so-called 'Lord' who'd ended or ruined so many people's lives. Who'd ruined _my _life.

It felt really, really good to blame someone besides myself for what had happened. "Barty Crouch, maybe you admired him, maybe he was like a replacement father, but Voldemort," there, I'd said it, "was not the perfect being we all thought he was. I hope that if you get your soul back you can realize that." I stood up. Nodding to Crouch, I walked quickly back to the foot of the stairs. I felt lighter, elated by the absence of the guilt and depression that had filled my thoughts ever since my sixth year at Hogwarts. Finally I could let myself think there was something to look forward to, I didn't feel like just laying down somewhere and dying…

I stopped abruptly as a very disturbing thought slammed into my mind.

"Mr. Malfoy?" It was Stevie. "What's up? You look like you've seen a basilisk."

"I've just thought – Stevie, is it a bad idea, what I'm doing?"

"What _are _you doing?"

I explained about my plans to get Barty Crouch Jr.'s soul back. "Only it just occurred to me – assuming it works, which is far from certain, is it going to make things better? Think about it; he's going to be stuck in Azkaban for the rest of his life with some really awful memories. Furthermore, the process of returning the missing soul is supposedly agonizing. It might be more ethical just to kill him." I felt horrible. After spending all this time on research, and then on talking to Crouch, my interest had gone far beyond academic curiosity. My whole life, which had been so aimless since the war, was wrapped up inextricably with all of this. Without comprehending it, I had let myself get involved emotionally in the project, and, I realized, I'd started to really care about Barty Crouch Jr. as well.

Stevie was gazing at me with an odd expression. She hesitated before eventually replying to my speculations. "I think you should go ahead with it," the Auror said slowly. "Even if he dies in the end, you will have found out some really valuable information about Dementors. It's all legal; there actually aren't many laws regarding people who've been Kissed. Most of the time we just leave them in Azkaban or St. Mungo's or whatever, and eventually they… disappear. I assume someone kills them; they don't age or die of any other natural cause as far as I can tell. Speaking of laws," her expression brightened, "I'm not sure he _would _be stuck in Azkaban if your plan works."

"But I thought he had a life sentence for the Longbottom affair…"

"That was never proven – his involvement, I mean. They put him in Azkaban anyway, because everyone was paranoid at that time, with the disappearances and everything. Really, the only murder he's officially committed is the one that happened at Hogwarts; his father, right? And I suppose he was involved in Cedric Diggory's death too – but they'll put most of the blame on You-Know-Who. That's not enough for a life sentence, particularly when you take his mental state into consideration. He's totally off his rocker, you know – he was even before the Dementor's Kiss."

"Yeah, I know." I was considerably reassured. "Thank you, Stevie. I hope you're right."

"Me too," she said as I headed off up the stairs. "Good luck."

* * *

Yes, I know, the whole 'no proof about the Longbottoms' thing would probably not hold up in court, but they're just speculating here. Also, I apologize for having my OC Stevie in so much (I prefer to stick with canon characters), but she's necessary for the plot. I would have used Tonks, but unfortunately, J. K. ROWLING KILLED HER! Arg. I liked Tonks. Anyway, reviews make my day seem a little brighter... :)


	5. Chapter V

Next chapter...

* * *

I returned to the manor, then apparated to the Ministry, in London. I stepped into a lift and headed for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. On the way, a few people shot me nasty looks, but most ignored me. I was glad; in the weeks immediately following the war, and the subsequent trials of Death Eaters and others who had collaborated with the – with Voldemort, nasty looks had been the rule rather than the exception, and sometimes it had gone beyond looking. Being shouted at in the middle of the Atrium by George Weasley, surrounded by fascinated onlookers, had not been an enjoyable experience.

I reached the floor holding my destination, and walked down a number of crowded hallways before reaching an office, containing a desk at which a bored-looking wizard sat writing some sort of list. I cleared my throat and he looked up.

"Yes, Department f'r Regulation 'n' Control 'f Magical Creatures, Dementor section, how c'n I help you?" he said, in one uninterested breath.

"Hello. I just had a question about current locations of Dementors."

"Are you with the political office? 'Cause if that's the case you can come back Wednesday, Chandrika will be in then an' she takes care of that stuff, I don't – oh hello."

He had spoken to somebody behind me, and his tone had suddenly changed from weary to quite friendly. I turned around and was surprised to see Hermione Granger, holding her usual stack of books and files and eating an apple.

"Hello. And hello, Malfoy," she said to me with cold dignity, which was quite an accomplishment seeing that she had one cheek filled with apple.

"Granger. What are you doing here?"

"I work here," she responded frostily, "I'm part of the coalition to gain rights for House Elves. You're obviously not here to join, so why _are _you here?"

"As I was saying, before you barged in on us, I wanted to know where the Dementors went after the war."

"They're in Siberia, as you'd know if you hadn't been stuck in trials at the time," she replied.

"I see. Siberia is a large place. Can I have some more specific information?" This was directed firmly at the man behind the desk. I hoped that if I ignored Granger she'd go away. Unlike Potter, Granger had never been fun to insult; she tended to retort intelligently and quickly, which was annoying. Despite my doubts about the supposed muggle-born inferiority, I still loathed Granger – even if she was a pureblood her know-it-all attitude would be infuriating.

The man gave me a map which zoomed in or out with the tap of a wand. I thanked him and turned to go, but unfortunately Granger was still blocking the doorway of the office.

"Why do you want to know about Dementors?" she asked me suspiciously. I was about to tell her to bug off when another familiar face appeared behind her. I groaned mentally. It was Ronald Weasley.

"Ready to go, Herm – Malfoy? What are _you _doing here?"

"He's looking for Dementors," Granger told him at once. He looked confused. I sneered at him.

"Well?" said Granger, tapping her foot irritatingly on the tiled floor. I contemplated telling them _both _to bug off and then leaving, but decided against it. My plan wasn't illegal by any means, and it would be worth telling them just to see the nonplussed looks on their faces.

"I'm looking for a soul…" I was not disappointed. By the time I'd finished recounting my colorful tale, both Granger and Weasley were staring at me as if I'd sprouted a third eye.

"So… you're going to Siberia to find a Dementor who's got the soul of an imprisoned former Death Eater, and then you're coming back and supposedly replacing the soul," said Weasley slowly, as if trying to understand a particularly complex Arithmancy equation.

"That's right," I replied, also with exaggerated slowness. "Would you like a study guide for that?"

Weasley started to give a heated reply, but Granger cut him off. "You're going by yourself? Malfoy, I knew you weren't exactly Einstein, but this is just _ridiculous._"

I didn't know who Einstein was, but got the gist of her comment anyway. "Yes, I am going by myself. Unless you'd care to come along?" I retorted with heavy sarcasm.

To my horror, she looked thoughtful. "Actually… I might. This whole theory is really fascinating…"

Weasley groaned. "Hermione, this is _Malfoy_. You can't be serious." She ignored him, instead concentrating on muttering to herself about what she'd need to bring along. He shot me an exasperated look, and I very nearly responded with one of my own before remembering that this was Weasley after all.

"Granger, I _have _a plan," I said. Mentally, though, I admitted that it was not the best one I'd ever come up with. It involved using a shielding spell invented by the author of my main reference book, but he had not actually used it at the time he was writing. In fact, he'd apparently been planning to test it out on his mission to recover the soul of his wife; a mission, I recalled, that had not ended well. Perhaps having Granger along would not be such a bad idea.

"Well, if you want to come I won't stop you," I told her, making up my mind. "You coming too, Weasley?"

He looked uncertain. "Hermione, are you sure about this?"

"Positive," she replied, her eyes alight with academic fervor.

He sighed. "Fine. Fine, I'll come with you. I'll have to tell George I'm taking some time off from the shop, though. When are we leaving, and how are we getting there?"

Before I could reply, Granger answered him. "Well we're apparating, obviously, to somewhere on the edge of the area where the Dementors are. I assume we'll fly in from there. How about we meet _here_ –" she pointed to a small wizarding town marked on the map in my hand "– at three in the afternoon tomorrow?"

Weasley and I looked at each other and shrugged. "Whatever," he said. He and Granger moved out of the way so I could leave the office, then walked off down the passage, holding hands. Apparently they were an _item_, I reflected, feeling slightly nauseated.

I apparated back to the manor and spent the rest of the day doing some last-minute re-reading of the helpful book from Knockturn Alley. The next morning I carefully polished and re-weatherproofed my broomstick, and practiced the Patronus charm. I had learned the charm from an Auror while I was staying near the Ministry for my father's trial. Once I was back in practice with that, I followed the intricate instructions in the book and performed the spell which would help me locate the correct Dementor. At three, I took my wand, my broomstick, and the book and apparated to the town on the map.

I was the first one to arrive, but Weasley and Granger showed up just a few minutes later, appearing with a cracking noise a few hundred feet away. The town was miniscule, with only one street along which stood a few houses and an inn. It was very cold, and I was glad I'd worn a sweater and my heaviest robes.

I pointed to my map once the other two had approached. "We're going in that direction," I told them, waving my hand roughly north-northeast. "I've cast a spell that should help us find the right Dementor, I'll activate it once we get closer. Granger, you don't seem to have a broomstick. Did you plan on sprouting wings, or are you going to hike all the way?"

"Ron's taking me on his broom," she replied. "I assume you know the Patronus charm?"

"Naturally."

"Good. Everyone ready? Let's go," she said bossily. We mounted our brooms and flew in the direction I'd indicated. The sky was dark, presumably because we were above the Arctic Circle. Soon, a line of low foothills loomed up in front of us. I shivered as the freezing air grew even colder, and realized we must be close to our destination. I muttered the final incantation that would activate the spell from the book.

As soon as I did so, I felt a faint pull coming from ahead and slightly to the right. I barely had time to analyze this development, however, before something invisible hit me in the face and then immediately vanished. Looking back, I saw a momentary flash in the air as Weasley and Granger passed through the same unseen wall.

"Some sort of containment field," gasped Granger as soon as she recovered from the shock.

"Yeah, I gathered. You should have seen the look on your face when you hit it," I told her, smirking.

"You could have told us it was there," grumbled Weasley. I didn't even bother replying to that particular piece of optimistic idiocy.

We flew onward into the foggy valley for about five minutes without seeing any Dementors. Despite the creatures' apparent absence, however, I felt the chill that always accompanied their approach. It grew stronger as we moved further into the dense mist.

"We should probably summon patronuses about now," said Weasley in a hushed voice. All three of us pulled out our wands.

"Expecto patronum!"

In the bright, silver light cast by the patronuses, tall shapes suddenly appeared, silhouetted against the grey haze filling the valley. I froze. There must have been at least twenty Dementors, assembled around us in a silent ring. After a shocked few moments wherein none of us moved, I focused on the feeling in my chest that was pulling me towards the Dementor holding Barty Crouch's soul.

"This way," I yelled, my voice slightly hoarse. Glancing behind to see Weasley jerking his broom around to follow me, I tore off to the left and slightly upwards. The Dementors, which had been watching us motionlessly up until now, drifted with surprising speed after us, and more of them gathered above. Our three patronuses formed a sort of guard around us as we flew on, as fast as was possible, towards our unseen destination.

Suddenly I saw it; a Dementor which looked in every way like the others, but from which radiated a magical, invisible pull. I pointed it out to Granger and Weasley, but was unsure whether they'd noticed my gesture among the swarming Dementors. My patronus glided close to my side as I approached the target creature.

I pulled out a glass vial from my robes, one I had specially prepared according to instructions in the helpful book. My mouth felt dry as I flew up directly in front of the Dementor and, taking a deep breath, grasped its bony arm.

The creature immediately lowered its head close to mine. My patronus, a large, slender, spotted cat, appeared between me and the Dementor's hooded face, but it was dim and fading rapidly. I desperately tried to think of a happy memory to replenish it with, but the sheer number of Dementors around me was leaching every remotely cheerful idea from my mind. As my patronus gave one final flicker and then vanished, my last thought was, _Why couldn't I have just collected Chocolate Frog cards for a hobby?_

Just as the Dementor's hood blew aside and I saw its hideous, rotting visage, a gleaming silver otter and a small silver dog leapt past me and pushed the creature back. It would have been driven away from us completely if I hadn't still held its arm in a white-knuckled grip. I raised my wand and shakily recited an incantation, again from the amazing – or completely detestable, I couldn't decide which it was right now – book, and a bright spark flew from beneath the Dementor's hood to land in the vial I held in the same hand as my wand.

As soon this happened, I let go of the Dementor's arm and slammed a cap onto the vial. Shoving the thing into my robes, I filled my mind with a memory of Father taking me to see my first Quidditch match, and shouted "Expecto patronum!"

My patronus burst from the tip of my wand and joined those of Weasley and Granger. "I've got it, we're done, we can go," I gasped as I turned my broom and shot back in the direction we'd come from. They followed, leaning forward on the broom, but no matter how fast we flew the Dementors kept pace with us, and Weasley's patronus wavered and vanished into the mist…

I felt a sudden, sharp blow and then we were outside the magical field which imprisoned the Dementors in their grey valley. I slowed down and turned on my broom in time to see Granger and Weasley pelt forward out of the fog.

"That…" panted Weasley, hauling his broomstick to a stop and spinning it to face sideways, "had to be the stupidest plan you've ever come up with, Hermione. Oh sure, let's go with Malfoy to Siberia and visit some Dementors, it'll be fun and educational! Blimey. If I didn't know better I'd swear you were totally round the bend."

Granger didn't reply for a minute, then she threw her arms around him and gave him a tight hug. Weasley's ears turned scarlet. I sighed and looked in the other direction, in the interest of preventing myself from being sick. I heard some quiet noises, and with some concentration realized that the two of them must be kissing. After giving them a few minutes, I said loudly, "Okay, we can land now."

"You got the soul?" asked Granger as we flew to the ground.

"Yes." We landed and I put my wand back into a pocket. "Thank you for accompanying me," I said through clenched teeth as I prepared to apparate back to the manor.

"Tell us if your project works," Granger said keenly, before disappearing with a crack. Weasley and I nodded awkwardly at one another.

"Yeah. Well, I'll see you around," said Weasley, uncomfortably. He also disapparated, and I was left alone on the snowy field we'd landed on. I glanced back at the foggy valley in which, I knew, the Dementors were hidden. Then, with a sigh, I returned to the manor.

* * *

I like writing Ron and Hermione. They're less angsty than Draco. Anyway, reviews are wonderful things. Next chapter will be up soon.


	6. Chapter VI

Okay, this one has some gore in it, just so you know. It also has some pretty dark stuff, but I've tried to balance that out with occasional lighter points.  


* * *

The next day, I woke up early, ate a very rushed breakfast, and flew off to Azkaban. Dawlish and the other Aurors at the gate were not thrilled to have their morning coffee disturbed, and they grumbled a little as they checked me for spells and confiscated my wand. I waited impatiently for them to finish, and when they were done I ran down the stairs to the basement, taking some steps two at a time.

Stevie was there, looking rather tired – apparently she was on duty Saturdays as well. She glared at my excited countenance and grunted, "What in the world gives you the right to be so cheerful this early in the day?"

I checked my pocket watch. Apparently, it was four in the morning. I shrugged and told the young Auror, "I got the soul."

Her expression changed almost instantaneously from annoyed to intrigued. "Wha- How did you get it? Do you have it here?"

I extracted the vial holding Barty Crouch's soul from a pocket and handed it to her. She stared at the bright white spark floating within the glass container.

"What do we do with it? Can we just… I dunno, pour it on him or something?"

"No," I replied, refraining from mentioning the fact that souls, to my knowledge, were not pourable, "according to the book I'm using for reference, it's a somewhat lengthy process. We have to leave it a short distance from him for a few days, and then move it closer in increments. It seems that getting a soul back all in one go, so to speak, would likely cause someone to go insane."

"He's already insane."

"True. However, he might become more so. At least he could form a coherent sentence before the Kiss."

"Alright. Where should we leave it?"

"Maybe in one of the empty cells along the hallway his cell is off of?" I suggested. Stevie nodded agreement, and we placed the vial in a cell at the far end of the hall from Crouch. Stevie locked the door; this was probably unnecessary, but we didn't want to take any risks. It was possible that Mundungus Fletcher, or someone like him, might come to visit one of their fellow criminals, and although they probably wouldn't recognize the soul for what it was, they might take it anyway on the off chance it was valuable.

We proceeded over to Barty Crouch's cell, which Stevie unlocked. We entered and looked down at Crouch, who did not appear to have moved or, indeed, responded in any manner whatsoever to the increased proximity to his soul.

"Is something supposed to have happened?" asked Stevie, uncertainly. I shrugged. "Maybe the soul has to be closer," she suggested, but I shook my head; the book had been quite explicit about distances. I wasn't sure how to react. I had been completely caught up in this project for weeks, and now it appeared that nothing was going to come of it after all. I knelt down next to Crouch and rested my forehead on my hand.

Suddenly, I raised my gaze and stared at the man beside me. My fingers shaking, I brushed back his pale hair and looked disbelievingly at the tears running down from his eyes, which were still fixed blankly on the opposite wall.

"Stevie," I said, my voice wavering slightly with suppressed exhilaration, "he's crying."

She let out an indistinct exclamation and bent down beside me.

"It appears to be working," I told her, unnecessarily. Celebratory fireworks were going off in my head, and I wanted to yell or jump around the room or do something similarly ridiculous to express my emotions. As that would have been undignified and embarrassing in the extreme, I restrained myself until we'd left the cell and I was waiting at the staircase for Stevie to finish renewing the locking spells, and then settled for quietly punching the stone wall until my knuckles bled.

I stopped as Stevie walked up to me. "Well, congratulations," she told me. "I'm glad it worked. I gather you'll be coming by a lot now?"

"Yeah. I'll show up every two days or so and we can move the soul closer."

"Right. Is there anything I should do for him while you're not here?"

I hesitated. The book had not been detailed on the recovery process; this might have been because the writer's sanity was slipping away rather quickly at the time he'd written that section. "I'm not sure. He won't eat or sleep until he's actually reunited with the soul. Maybe you could talk to him? I really have no idea."

She nodded. "Okay. Well, I'll see you, anyway. I'll tell Mikey about all this; he's on duty Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday, I've got all the other days. Prudence's got nights, I'll tell her too. Ta."

I left and went back to the manor, but found it difficult to relax once there. I paced around the room, called Mother to check on how she was doing (about the same as last time I'd seen her), re-read the helpful book from start to finish, and listened to Grieg while checking the state of my finances. As I bent over the parchment, with its Gringotts crest and complex watermarks, my hair kept getting into my eyes. Eventually I got up and rummaged around in a selection of cabinets for a hand mirror. I couldn't find one, and the great, wall-mounted mirror formerly hanging in the drawing room was off being repaired; it had been broken when Potter and company had escaped from the manor the previous year.

I took my wand and headed upstairs. Carefully, I pushed open the door to Father's room. Dust covered the carpets as I walked over to stand in front of the large mirror on his bureau. I waved my wand, and the dust coating the mirror's surface vanished, showing my reflection.

I nearly screamed. Since the end of the war, I hadn't bothered much about my appearance, being alternately deeply depressed about the past, and stressed out about trials and other important matters. I just used my wand to shave every morning and occasionally showered. As a result, my normally sleek, slicked back hair had grown almost to my shoulders, and hung limply around my pale face, which had stubble on it; apparently my wand work was getting sloppy. There were dark shadows under my eyes, and the collar of my robes was severely rumpled.

Muttering to myself that I would never, ever go out in public again without first looking in a mirror, I used my wand to restore my appearance to something close to its former state. I debated about leaving the hair long, eventually growing it out like my father's, but decided we already looked enough like one another without my enhancing the resemblance; given the current political situation, being mistaken for Father was not a desirable circumstance. Furthermore, the hair got in the way.

After fixing myself up, I decided to visit Knockturn alley. I strolled down the narrow street, looking up at the darkening evening sky. I stopped when I came to the used bookstore, and, checking the hours to ensure it was still open, entered.

Vincent Wulfgar greeted me cordially, and remarked on my changed appearance. I conveyed my apologies about my earlier state. He shrugged. "I thought it was okay, actually."

I looked askance at him. Deciding to change the subject to something less awkward, I told him how helpful the book I'd bought most recently from him had been. That made me think of a question; how in the world did he know the contents of the books so well?

"I read all the books in here," he explained. "We don't get new ones very frequently, so it's not as hard as it sounds. People will sell or donate their old books to us, but like I said, it's a pretty rare occurrence. Happened a lot more right after the war ended, though; no one wanted Dark Arts books in their houses in case the Ministry came to call."

"Actually, there are a bunch of old books in my manor," I said, "Some of them I'd like to keep, but you can have the rest. They're mostly Dark Arts, but some of them are just historical texts."

He was delighted, and I returned to the manor feeling very satisfied with how the day had gone. None of my comrades from school were talking to me since the war; Gregory because he blamed me for Vincent Crabbe's death, Pansy and Blaise because the current politics meant I was not a useful friend to have. Moaning Myrtle, my confidante throughout my awful sixth year, couldn't leave Hogwarts, and I wasn't particularly welcome there. Hopefully, I thought, Vincent Wulfgar, and maybe Stevie, might help compensate for the loss of those old friends.

I visited Mother on the next day, and on Monday I flew to Azkaban and moved Crouch's soul two cells closer to his. He seemed the same as he had on Saturday, but I wasn't unduly worried – the effects might take a while to show up. I also delivered the promised load of books to the Knockturn Alley used bookstore. On Tuesday afternoon I was just starting to read the _Daily Prophet _when I heard someone yelling from the drawing room. I ran in; the person sounded seriously alarmed.

It was Stevie, giving me a call by Floo powder. She looked frantic.

"Mr. Malfoy, you have to get here immediately, he's in really bad shape. I think he tried to kill himself."

My eyes widened. "Right," I said, "will the Floo connection work both ways?"

"No, no, you'll have to fly, but hurry up!" Her head vanished from the fireplace.

I grabbed my broomstick and apparated as close to Azkaban as possible, which was about a hundred yards out from the rocky island it stood upon. I managed to swing onto my broom just before falling into the cold grey sea, and shot toward the prison as fast as the broom would take me. Stevie was waiting with the Aurors at the gate, next to a hastily kindled magical fire. I dashed up to her, and the other Aurors let me through the gate with only a minimum of detection spells.

Stevie told me what had happened as we ran down the stairs to the basement. "He was just like last time when I got here this morning, and I was off chatting with the McCarter sisters for maybe a half hour, then I went back to his cell and he was lying there with blood all down his arms. I called you as soon as we got the fire started. I've done the most powerful healing spells I can, but he'd already lost a lot of blood."

I nodded as we reached the bottom of the stairs and hurried over to our destination. As Stevie unlocked the door (apparently she hadn't re-applied the protection spells), I stared in shock at Barty Crouch Jr. He was curled up in a corner, with messy gashes down both his arms, and probably on his chest as well judging by the red stains soaking his shirt. There was blood all over the floor and some spattered on the walls as well.

_There was blood all over the floor, saturating the expensive carpet in the drawing room, as Fenrir Greyback dragged the mutilated corpse of his victim out of the door. I was standing, frozen, and heard a heavy thump as something hit the ground outside – _

No, I was in Azkaban, and Stevie had just thrown open the door to the cell, and the blood-covered body was that of a youngish man and not of a middle-aged woman –

_ The Dark Lord looked at the desecrated carpet and said, in a high, cold voice, "Take care of that, Draco, but leave it in sight. After you're done, bring Ollivander to me – perhaps he will be more cooperative with something to remind him of the consequences of – _

_ "Shut up!_" I shouted, slamming my fist against the metal hinge of the cell door. Its jagged edge sliced into my hand, and the pain drove away the memory, made it less vivid. I was able to concentrate on the real, current situation, and I followed Stevie into the cell, kneeling down beside Crouch and pulling out my wand.

I muttered the spell Snape had used on me in my sixth year, after Potter and I had gotten into a fight in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, and I had lost a lot of blood. As far as I knew, Snape had invented it himself, so there was a chance Stevie hadn't used it yet.

It seemed she hadn't, as some of the blood coating the floor of the cell flowed back into the gashes it had come from. I really hoped it would be enough.

* * *

Sorry to anyone that found the whole 'Draco looks like a hobo' thing weird; it was late, I was tired, and I'd just watched 'The Bird and the Worm', by The Used. Anyway, hopefully the gore-fest wasn't too gross. As usual, I'd appreciate reviews.


	7. Chapter VII

Next chapter... After this one the updates may be less frequent, as my proofreading has caught up to my writing.  


* * *

Five nerve-wracking minutes later, Stevie and I sat against opposing walls of the cell. Barty Crouch was still unconscious from blood loss, but he was going to be alright (at least physically).

"What were you yelling 'shut up' for?" asked Stevie after a while. "I wasn't saying anything at the time."

"Yeah. I was yelling it at myself. I had… I suppose it was a very violent flashback."

"Okay… I won't comment. Where did you learn that spell you used?"

"A friend taught it to me." We fell silent. I didn't want to talk about Snape, and Stevie also seemed to have something on her mind.

"I'm sorry," she said eventually, in a low voice. "I should have kept a closer eye on him. I just didn't think –"

"It isn't your fault," I told her at once. "You couldn't have guessed something like this would happen. You _were _very careful, anyway. You didn't even give him a tin spoon or anything."

"Well, no, he doesn't eat, what would I be giving him a spoon for?" she pointed out logically. I shrugged.

"If anything, Stevie, it's my fault. I should have anticipated that he'd be in a bad state. I mean, the Dementor's Kiss takes you so far away from any happy thoughts you fall into a state of actual apathy, but right now, with the soul this close, he's more in the equivalent of a very, very severe depression. I can't believe I didn't think of this…"

"Come on, Mr. Malfoy –" "Draco," I told her. "Alright, Draco, then. You weren't here. There's no way this is your fault."

"You think so?" I said, feeling slightly less guilty. True, I should have suspected something along these lines might occur, particularly since I'd been somewhat depressed myself since the war, but maybe Stevie had a point. I couldn't foresee everything.

"I should give my wand to Dawlish and the others," I realized presently. "They weren't exactly overjoyed at letting me in here with it." Stevie nodded agreement.

I wandered back up the stairs and over to the Aurors at the gate, handing over my wand. Before returning to the basement, I decided to drop in and see my father. He was having a conversation with Avery, who was in the cell across the hall from his, but he stopped as soon as he saw me.

"Draco. How are you? You look well."

I grimaced at the memory of how I must have looked on my precious visits. "I'm fine, thank you. And you?"

"Fine. How is your project coming along?"

"Er. There was an unexpected and extremely unwelcome development, I'm afraid, but I think it's fixed, and overall everything is coming along."

We chatted for a while. As I left I heard Father telling a curious Avery the main features of my project. I went down to the basement, where Stevie was still waiting in Crouch's cell. He hadn't woken up yet.

"There you are, Draco. I'm off to see the McCarters; I'd just as soon not be here when he wakes up."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I might kill him out of frustration about what he just put us through, and that'd sort of defeat the whole point of everything we did, no?"

"Yes, it would. Please, go."

She left, locking the cell door behind her, leaving me and Barty Crouch inside. I bent down and examined the injuries on Crouch's arms. It appeared he'd actually ripped them open with his fingernails; there was blood caught under the nails, confirming my theory. I shivered; it was lucky he hadn't had a tin spoon, or any other kind of relatively sharp-edged tool, or he'd be dead right now.

As I gazed at him, Crouch suddenly moved a little and his eyes opened. He looked around the cell for a few moments before focusing on me.

"What happened?" he muttered. His voice was hoarse and very quiet, but this was hardy surprising; as far as I knew, he hadn't spoken for more than three years.

"Hey," I said. Apart from that, I was at a momentary loss. This situation was effectively unique; what exactly does one say to a person whose soul has been sucked out by a Dementor?

"We healed your injuries?" I tried. "What do you actually remember?"

"I remember you talking to me," he said after a minute, "and I remember what – what I was thinking. How long has it been?"

"Since the Dementor… Well, it's actually about three and a half years. Sorry."

"Oh."

There was a long silence. Eventually, I took hold of his bony shoulders and helped him sit up. The silence stretched on.

Finally, I said, hesitantly, "If you remember me talking to you, you know about the war, and how it ended."

He nodded, but didn't say anything. I felt quite miserable.

"I'm sorry," I told him. "We shouldn't have done any of this. I thought it seemed like a fascinating idea at the time, but I guess I didn't think enough about how you'd actually feel. I suppose I forgot there was a real person involved. Even fixing your injuries was probably a bad idea; it would have been more ethical to not do anything."

"Ethics are an artificial construct," said Crouch abruptly. I was taken slightly aback, but before I could say anything he continued. "The only morals that exist are the ones you make up or believe because someone else told you about them."

"I suppose so," I agreed, after thinking about this for a second. I was surprised. Philosophical discussions were one thing I really hadn't anticipated when embarking on my project.

"I know the Dark Lord isn't dead, by the way," he said suddenly, giving me a brilliant, insane smile. I hesitated. Not only were his non-sequiturs rather disorienting, but I had no idea what reply would be least harmful to his obviously fragile mental state.

"I tried to kill myself before, because you said he was gone, but by now I've figured out he can't be," he continued.

"Actually," I said carefully, "actually, Crouch – er – what would you like me to call you?"

"I don't care. You can call me Barty. I'll call you Draco, because that way I won't confuse you with your father. You should be happy. I hated having the same name as my father. Lucky he's dead now. Also, your father wasn't very faithful to the Dark Lord, and now he's coming back, and he's not going to be pleased with the way most of his followers have acted since his disappearance. I am his most faithful servant, because now Bellatrix is dead, and no one else has ever suffered for him the way we did. Rodolphus and Rabastan only looked for him because of Bellatrix. He will honour me beyond anything you can imagine, and the others will pay for their renouncement of him."

"Okay…. I'm sure they will, er, Barty. Just hang on a minute, will you?"

He didn't respond, but continued to gaze at nothing with that disturbing grin on his face. I called Stevie over, and she let me out of the cell. I walked with her over to the stairs.

"You were right, he's completely mad," I told her softly once we were there. "What the hell am I supposed to say to him? He thinks Voldemort is going to come back again."

Stevie looked momentarily taken aback by my use of the Dark Lord's name, but recovered quickly. "As you may have observed, I'm not exactly a psychologist, so you should really ask someone else."

"Like who?"

"Good point. Okay, then, I guess I'd say you ought to try and convince him You-Know-Who's really gone."

"Are you sure? I don't want to make him suicidal again."

"Of course I'm not sure. I just finished telling you I'm not an expert on this kind of thing. Jeez, Draco."

"Alright. I'll take your advice. Why don't… why don't we use Legilimancy? If he can _see _what I did, Voldemort's death and everything…"

"What, give him a wand? Not likely."

"It's not that dangerous if you're standing there the whole time. If he's pointing his wand at me, and you're pointing yours at him, he won't have time to turn and curse you before you can react. I'll be the only one taking any risk."

"Your funeral."

"I hope not. Shall we retrieve my wand, or will one of the Aurors on the first floor let you borrow theirs?"

"I'll borrow one. Are you sure about this?"

"Of course I'm not sure. Jeez, Stevie."

She grinned at this, then went upstairs and returned with an additional wand. We went over to Crouch's cell. He was standing up and looking at us through the bars.

"I know you don't believe me," he said calmly, as we approached. "You'll see. He'll come back."

"No, he won't. I can prove it," I replied.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed his features, but it was immediately obscured by the same creepy smile he'd had earlier.

"Here's a wand. You can use it to cast Legilimens, and see exactly what I saw when Voldemort died," I told him.

"Don't use the Dark Lord's name. I don't want to see what you think you saw."

I was about to start reasoning with him, trying to persuade him to just give it a chance, but Stevie interrupted me by unlocking and throwing open the door. She stepped into the cell and grabbed the front of Crouch's tattered robes, growling at him, "Look, buddy, you've given us enough trouble already. Draco's only doing this for you, the least you can do is cooperate."

Although I was of course actually doing this for a number of reasons, many of which had nothing whatsoever to do with Barty Crouch Jr., I refrained from correcting her. She did not look like a safe person to antagonize at the moment.

Crouch seemed quite startled by Stevie's alarming attitude. Before he could recover, she took the opportunity to shove the spare wand into his hand, and direct her own wand at his chest.

"Don't try anything," she warned, in a somewhat less aggressive tone. I followed her into the cell and smiled encouragingly at Crouch, who still appeared slightly shocked.

"Go ahead," I told him. "You know the spell, yes?"

He nodded and, glancing warily at Stevie, carefully raised the wand to point it at me. "Legilimens."

A second later he jerked backward violently, dropping the wand. I caught it and looked back up at Crouch, who was standing in a corner, staring at the wall.

"Barty? Are you alright?" I asked, seriously concerned. Perhaps this hadn't been the best idea, I reflected with a sinking feeling.

He spun around, his mop of fair hair falling into his eyes, which were reddish and teary. _"Go away!"_ he yelled, before turning to face into the corner again. I grabbed Stevie and dragged her out of the cell, shutting the door behind us. She locked it, and we proceeded down the hallway as far as we could while still keeping Crouch in sight. I didn't want a repeat of the events earlier this afternoon.

"Did he see it?" asked Stevie in a soft voice.

"Yes."

She bit her lip. "I hope that wasn't a mistake. Maybe we should have let him keep on believing You-Know-Who was coming back…"

"No, I think you were right. He'd find out eventually anyway, so it might as well be here and now, where we can keep an eye on him."

She sighed and nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right. Gods, Draco, sometimes I wish you'd picked some other hobby. One that didn't involve Dementors and insane people, you know? Ever consider that?"

"All the time," I answered, also sighing. "Will you make sure he doesn't do anything dangerous for a few minutes? I want to go visit my father again."

I walked slowly up the stairs and down the hall to Father's cell, where he was sitting reading the _Prophet_. He looked up and smiled as I approached.

"Hello again, Draco."

"Hey. Things aren't going too well downstairs." When I'd spoken with him earlier, I hadn't told him any specifics about the current circumstances; I'd simply said there was a problem. Now, I quickly told him the basics of what had occurred. He was sympathetic to my situation, but seemed confused by the severity of my reaction.

"The incident was certainly unfortunate, but I don't understand why you are so upset over it. He didn't die; your project can continue, and you now know to watch out for things like this in future. What's the problem?"

"I'm not sure; I feel like it's my fault this happened. I think it might have been better if we hadn't interfered, and he'd died."

"That makes no sense. You'd never find out if your idea would have worked."

"I'm not talking about the _project_, Father," I said, in an irritated tone. "I'm talking about Barty Crouch. He's extremely unhappy, and I'm at least partially responsible for that."

Father looked completely bewildered. "I still don't understand, Draco. Why does it matter to you how he's feeling? Surely you don't feel guilty when you upset Potter, or one of the Weasleys, as well?"

"No, of course I don't. Maybe it's because I haven't seen my other friends for so long, but I think – I think I may have gotten somewhat attached to him."

A look of comprehension appeared on Father's features, and he sighed in exasperation. "For Merlin's sake, Draco. I'm sorry about your friends, and I can sympathize with your wish to make others, but why did you have to pick a deranged former Death Eater who's had his soul sucked out?"

"I didn't mean to," I replied defensively. "It just sort of happened on its own. I have other friends, too."

"Such as?"

I told him about Vincent Wulfgar and Stevie Paulson.

"I've met Wulfgar, he seems nice enough, but an Auror? A half-blood Auror, at best."

I hadn't thought about that. It was true that Stevie had made a number of references which were almost certainly muggle-related, but I had overlooked them, mainly because she'd made them while we were discussing important matters. After a moment's thought I decided her blood status didn't matter; she was friendly and intelligent and I liked her a great deal. I didn't tell Father about this conclusion, however, as he still felt quite strongly that purebloods were superior to other wizards. Instead, I shrugged.

"We're going to be dealing with a lot of half-bloods and muggle-borns now that the war's over. I might as well start now."

He reluctantly agreed, and wished me luck with my project before I returned to the basement. I tried talking to Barty Crouch, but he wouldn't even look at me, so I said farewell to Stevie and left. Back at the manor, I collapsed on a couch in the drawing room and tried, with no success, to figure out how my life had gotten so weird.

* * *

Okay... I'm not sure how in character Barty was. He's seriously fun to write, though. Anyway, reviews are your friends...


	8. Chapter VIII

Chapter VIII is up! Huzzah. I have the ending worked out now, so hopefully there will only be a few more chapters to go.

* * *

The next day, I returned to Azkaban. As I descended the stairs to the basement, I realized that Stevie wouldn't be here today; it was Wednesday, so her colleague... what was it, Marty? Mikey? That was it, Mikey – he'd be here instead.

It turned out that Mikey was the aged man I'd met on Christmas. We exchanged greetings.

"How has Barty Crouch been?" I asked, once we'd finished with the essential pleasantries.

"Quite frankly, boring. He's just like he was before you got his soul back; he sits in the cell and doesn't do anything."

"Oh." I wasn't sure whether this was an improvement over his previous suicidal state or not. I thanked Mikey for the information, moved the soul closer to Crouch's cell – it was only one cell away now – and wandered over to the subject of my experiment.

As the Auror had said, the cell's occupant looked exactly as he had prior to my adventure in Siberia.

"Hello, Barty," I said. He didn't move. "Look, I know you can hear me." Still no response. I looked down, feeling simultaneously irritated and guilty. Eventually I said, "Alright. I'll leave if you want me to. I'm sorry." I didn't say for what; I wasn't sure about that myself. "It's fine if you want to be alone. You must hate me for everything I've done to you."

"What?" he said, in a startled tone. I looked up from the floor to see him gazing at me in confusion. "I don't hate you."

"You don't?" I was surprised.

"No. I thought you knew that."

"How would I know?"

"When you were saying it wasn't ethical to make me stay alive, I told you that ethics were just a point of view. I was trying to make you feel better…" he trailed off uncertainly. I thought about this for a minute. I supposed that it _did _make sense, in an odd way; it would probably make more sense if I was insane.

"Well, thanks," I told him, smiling a little. "I didn't think of it like that at the time, but yes, it did make me feel better, actually."

He stood up and walked over to the door of the cell. "I used to like Quidditch, you know."

"Oh yes?" I said, trying to keep pace with the conversation. "I like it too."

"Are you a seeker?"

"Yes, I am. Or I was. How did you know?"

"When I dropped that wand yesterday, you caught it automatically. I thought maybe you were a seeker, with reflexes like that. Anyway, you wanted to know if I had any hobbies when I was younger. I used to watch Quidditch a lot."

I vaguely remembered saying something about hobbies when I'd first started to visit him. Apparently he'd thought it more important than I had, or possibly he'd just picked a topic at random and started talking about it. I doubted that, however. Although he was certainly not sane by any conventional standard, it was starting to look like Crouch's unsystematic conversation and mind-set had some sort of skewed reasoning behind them.

"Did you ever play yourself?" I asked.

"No. I just liked watching."

A thought struck me. "Did your father approve of Quidditch?"

His expression darkened and he didn't reply.

"I'm sorry. That was too personal."

"It's okay," he said, slowly. "He didn't, no – well, he didn't mind other people playing it, but he thought I should be focused on academics. He mostly didn't approve of things. I thought if I didn't either he'd approve of me, but that wasn't the case. Oh well. He's dead anyway. The Dark Lord would approve of that. I was his most trusted, closest follower, you know. I was closer than a son. Sons aren't automatically close to their fathers. Unfortunately, the Dark Lord's dead too. Everyone's dead eventually. You're dead, I'm dead, except I'm more dead than you, because I'm older and I don't have any soul, so I'm halfway there already. I guess I win, because I'll be dead first." He was staring at a spot on the wall past my head with a slightly alarming intensity.

"Er," I responded. He grinned.

"Why is it, Draco, that anytime I say anything remotely deep or perceptive, people say 'er' or some similarly eloquent statement? Sanity is in the eye of the beholder, or the ear, I suppose. From my point of view, I'm saner than anyone in Azkaban, Aurors included."

"I… yeah, I can see your point. Actually, with the benefit of hindsight, some of the things you said earlier do make a lot of sense. Perhaps I'm starting to be able to see things from your point of view. I don't think it's mad, exactly, just… odd. Unique."

"Thank you," he replied, his voice strangely quiet. He fixed his gaze upon a spot on the bars in between us. Now that I was beginning to understand some of Barty's peculiar behavior, I wondered how much of it actually _was _due to his stay in Azkaban, and the later Kiss, and how much was simply his personality. No doubt some of it was genuine insanity, but if he'd been somewhat eccentric to begin with, it could help explain why he and his father had not been able to relate to one another. Crouch Sr., from what I knew of the man, had been practically a personification of strict decorum and normality, at least before he'd put his son in Azkaban.

At this point I realized that I'd been silent, lost in my thoughts, for almost an entire minute. Barty had ceased staring at the bars and was gazing at me curiously.

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing, really. Mere speculation. What about you?"

"I was thinking I'd like to know what you were thinking, but now I'm thinking about us."

"Pardon?"

"Us. You and I. I like talking to you, but you can't keep spending all this time in Azkaban, and I can't leave. When _you _leave, permanently that is, I suppose I should probably just die."

"What? Barty, I'm sorry, you've lost me there."

"If you're not here I have nothing to do. I have nothing to think about except what I was thinking about before the… before. Thus, when you give up on this experiment, I should probably die. That might prove difficult. You're really very stubborn about it."

"I'm not giving up on this."

"Yes you are. Or you will. It's not as if it's particularly interesting."

"I promise, I'm not."

"Sure," he said, although I could tell he didn't believe me. "Well, what if you die, or something? You won't be able to visit then."

"You have a point." I thought. "Do you think you'd feel better if we tried getting your soul back sooner? Tomorrow, or even now? That way if I _did _die you'd at least have an easier time thinking about pleasant memories." I knew this was a risky proposal, but the current situation was probably even more dangerous. Only one Auror guarded the basement here, and they couldn't spend all their time watching one cell. Despite what I'd said earlier, about it being more ethical to let Barty decide whether or not it was worth staying alive, I really, really didn't want him to die. It was an odd concept, but I realized that I thought of him as my friend.

"I don't know. I don't care. Why not? Let's do it."

"Alright," I said, a bit nervously. I went into the neighboring cell and retrieved the soul.

"What do we do with it?" asked Barty, staring raptly at the bright white spark floating in its vial.

"I believe we just open the vial. It should go to you by itself."

I stuck my hand, holding the vial, in between the bars. Barty removed the cap. Immediately, the glowing soul flew out of its glass prison and directly towards its original possessor. His eyes widened for a second as the soul reunited with him, and then he fell over in a dead faint.

I cursed. "Mikey," I yelled. The grizzled Auror jogged over. "Would you be so kind as to open the bloody cell?" I said, somewhat anxiously. Barty looked alright, and I could see him breathing, but I was worried nonetheless.

Mikey muttered the necessary spells and unlocked the door, and I bent down next to my unconscious friend. He seemed fine, apart from being out cold. Mikey asked if I wanted to stay in the cell when he renewed the locking spells. I informed him that I did.

Several minutes passed before Barty woke up. He gazed at me with a glazed expression for a moment, then groaned and put his hands over his eyes.

"My head. I should be in a lovely white padded cell or something. Have I said how much I loathe this place?"

"No, but I think it went without saying. Are you alright?"

"No. I'm no worse than before, though. Apart from the headache, that is." He got up and leaned on the bars. "I really _do _hate this place. That makes sense, I hate my father and he sent me here, so I'd hate it anyway, but it's horrid on its own account."

That reminded me of something I'd been meaning to ask. I hesitated before speaking, though; this was probably a sensitive subject.

"Barty, you were originally sentenced for participation in the incident with the Longbottoms. I know there wasn't any proof, and it was due to the paranoia rampant at the time that you were sent here, but there wasn't any evidence to contest the accusation, either."

"So you want to know if I _did _help dear Bella and company torture those blood traitors into insanity?" he said casually. I was slightly stunned at how calmly he'd taken the question.

"Yes, that's correct."

"I did, yes. It was actually quite fun listening to them scream." He watched me closely as I considered this information. Truthfully, it was not entirely unexpected; although there had indeed been little initial evidence of Barty's involvement, his later fanatic commitment to Voldemort suggested he had been caught up in the business from the beginning. I wished things had been otherwise, but at least this wasn't a shock.

I nodded. "Thanks for telling me."

He looked intently at me. "That's all you're going to say? You're not going to do anything else?"

"No," I replied, somewhat puzzled. "What are you talking about? What would I do?"

"I don't know. I thought you might leave. Maybe you'd screech at me, or something. That would have been entertaining."

"I'm not doing anything. I knew all along there was a definite possibility the accusations were true."

"Oh." He seemed slightly surprised. "Well."

Neither of us said anything for a minute or two. Barty stared at me until I began to feel uncomfortable. Eventually, he said, "That's not true. I didn't torture them."

"Pardon?"

"I said I didn't. I lied to you earlier. I _was _involved; I stood guard at the door. I was leaving with the others when the Aurors found us."

"Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to see what you'd do. It doesn't really matter, anyway. You only have my word for it; I could be lying again. You don't know I'm not."

"No, but I don't think you're lying," I told him. "Not that anyone else will believe you. Of course, even if you did manage to convince people of that particular detail, you'd still be stuck here because you murdered your father, and because you were a Death Eater."

"Right, you're completely right. Well, now I have my soul back, I can starve to death like any other person. That's convenient."

"I wish you wouldn't keep saying you'll kill yourself."

"Why not? You have to admit, I'm not exaggerating when I say no one would miss me."

"I'd miss you."

"Well, apart from you. I don't know why you like to talk to me; other people think it's creepy, talking to lunatics."

"You're not _that_ crazy."

"You don't think so? After you used Legilimancy earlier? Do you honestly think anyone could spend three years thinking all of that and not be insane?"

"I didn't say you're completely sane; I just said you're not as crazy as other people – Stevie, for example – think you are."

He looked askance at me. "You're mad too."

"Possibly. Look, it's beside the point, isn't it? There _should _be a way to get you out of here, Barty. I think three and a half years without your soul should be considered enough of a penalty for whatever crimes a person has committed."

"Sure, maybe. They won't let me out, regardless. It's not safe; I might hurt someone, right?" He gave me a bright grin, but apart from the smile he looked extremely unhappy.

"I know. You'd have to make an Unbreakable Vow or something before they'd let you out, and as those are illegal, they're not going to let you do that." Even as I said this, an idea appeared in my mind; a mad idea, admittedly, one that would probably never work, but that just might have a chance if…

"I have to go," I said, calling Mikey. "I'll come back, not today, but probably tomorrow or the day after. Just don't die until then, alright?" That sounded pathetic, but I was in a hurry. Barty nodded and grinned. He was still grinning as I headed off towards the stairs, but this did not reassure me. I fervently hoped he'd be here when I got back.

* * *

It might be a couple of days before the next chapter, I just finished writing this one. I realize this chapter is almost all dialogue; hopefully it didn't get dull. Anyway, I'd love reviews.


	9. Chapter IX

Alright, so I know I said I wouldn't update for a few days, but earlier this morning I was possessed by the Fanfiction Demon and typed up this chapter.  


* * *

I flew back to the manor and then traveled by Floo powder to Knockturn Alley. The used bookstore, for the first time in my experience, had one customer, but she left soon after I arrived. Vincent Wulfgar turned to me with a smile.

"Hello again. I've read the books you donated; they're great. That witch who just left bought one of them. How can I help you today?"

"I'm looking for some legal information, as it so happens. Do you have any idea if the Unbreakable Vow has ever been used as a substitute for prison?"

"Certainly. In the medieval ages it was quite common, and Japan used it up until the end of last century. The main reasons for abolishing its usage were, one, that it didn't satisfy the moral sense of justice held by the public, and two, there were often loopholes in the Vow due to some idiot deciding on the exact wording."

"I see. So there's no record of it being used in modern times?"

He looked keenly at me. "Does this have anything to do with your Dementor research, pray tell?"

"Yeah, it does. There's a man in Azkaban who'd been given the Dementor's Kiss, and I've managed to get his soul back for him, but he's still stuck in prison. I'm looking for a way to get him out."

"Fascinating. Well, there is one record. After the first war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, a woman in Japan was allowed to make a Vow rather than go to prison in order to continue with her work of raising dangerous magical animals; no one else wanted to take over for her, you see. As I'm sure you know, though, that's illegal in this country, and we're not particularly flexible about it."

"Right. Right. What about, if someone had already _made _the Vow before the Ministry found out about it?"

"The people who were involved with performing the spell necessary for the vow would probably be either fined or imprisoned, but as far as I know the actual prisoner might well be released, if there wasn't too much of a moral outcry."

"Aha. Thank you. One more thing, Vincent – is there any chance you'd write out the exact wording of a Vow for me?"

He looked at me with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. "Purely theoretical, I'm sure?"

"Of course. Your name wouldn't have to be on it, anyways, so even if it weren't, there would be no consequences for you."

"Alright then. Could be interesting. Of course, you're aware that at least three people are necessary for an Unbreakable Vow; the one making the vow, the one they're vowing it to, and the one who recites the vow and performs the spell?"

"Entirely."

"Actually, for the cases in the medieval ages, they used to have the subject make the vow to _two _people, in case one died."

"I understand."

Vincent Wulfgar gazed at me for a few more minutes, then went and found some parchment and a quill. He wrote down a few paragraphs, then spent quite a long while crossing out and rewriting parts of his work. Eventually, he handed the paper to me. I read it. It was an impressively loophole-free document. In essence, it decreed that the person making the vow would not be able to harm or kill anyone, or engage in a number of other illegal activities, without breaking their word (and thus dying).

"Thanks. This is absolutely perfect."

"No problem. Do tell me how it comes out, will you?"

"What, the theory?"

He smirked. "Yeah. That's right, of course."

I left the shop with the parchment in the pocket of my robes and entered Borgin and Burke's. As I stepped up to the fireplace within, I suddenly realized that in my hurry to depart the manor, I had neglected to bring enough Floo powder for the return journey. I swore heatedly.

"On a list of curses, that one's right up there with _Avada Kedavra_."

I turned around to see a tall young woman standing a few yards behind me.

"Oh. Sorry, I thought I was alone." The woman looked vaguely familiar, and I wondered if I'd seen her somewhere before. "Have we met, by any chance?"

"I don't think so. What's your name?"

"Draco Malfoy," I answered, noting as I did so that she had a slight American accent. "Yours?"

"Astoria Greengrass," she replied.

"That explains it. Your younger sister was in my year at Hogwarts." Daphne had practically waxed poetic about her beloved sister, who was only two years older and was going to school in America.

"Oh yes, dear Daphne. So tell me, Draco Malfoy, what are you doing in my store? Besides cursing the paint off the walls, that is."

"Your store? You own this place?" I was slightly startled. True, the Darker items that had been the signature of this store while it was in the possession of Mr. Borgin had vanished, and it was noticeably cleaner, but I hadn't thought the old man would leave his store to someone as young as Astoria; someone who'd gone to school in America, no less.

"Yeah, I do. Mr. Burke was my great uncle, and Borgin didn't have any relatives when he died a month ago. You haven't answered my question, though; what are you here for?"

"I _was _going to use the fireplace to travel back home, but it seems I've forgotten the Floo powder. Is there any chance you have some I could purchase?"

"Just a minute." Astoria disappeared among the dusty shelves, and returned shortly with a pot of Floo powder. I pulled a silver sickle out of my pocket and started to hand it to her, but she pushed it away.

"Never mind. You can have this one free on account of teaching me a beautiful new swear word."

I grinned and thanked her before returning to the manor. She seemed quite nice, I reflected; perhaps I would go back to Borgin and Burke's some time and peruse the items, and maybe have a chat with her while I was at it.

I pulled out the piece of parchment with the wording of the Unbreakable Vow on it and placed it on a table, sighing. Remembering what Vincent Wulfgar had said about needing four people, I realized what I had to do – but the thought of doing it was not a happy one. For the rest of the day and on into the night, I paced the room, listening to Hasselmans, trying to convince myself to just work up some courage and do it.

I didn't succeed, and that night I went to bed feeling extremely depressed with myself. I'd been through a war, I'd faced about a thousand Dementors in Siberia, and I'd returned a man's soul; why was it so hard to ask one person for a favor?

The next morning, I decided that I would just have to grit my teeth and do it. I apparated to the Ministry of Magic and made my way to the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures department. Following the signs, I eventually came to a bright, poster-covered door, which apparently led to the House Elf Rights section. I cautiously pushed open the door.

A young, bespectacled wizard dressed in vibrant robes smothered in pins and patches looked up from his desk. "Hello! Welcome to the offices of the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare! Are you here to help us Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status?"

"Er… no. I'm looking for Hermione Granger."

"Oh." The wizard's face fell a little. "She isn't here right now, she's working at home. But I can give her a call if you want!" he added, brightening. "She's taught me how to use a fellytone, you know."

"A what?"

"It's a muggle communication device. Look, here –" and he pointed to an odd-looking object resting on the corner of his desk.

"Okay, fine, use the fellytone if you want. Can you tell her that Draco Malfoy is here and would like to talk to her?"

"Okay!" He lifted the device off the desk and pressed a sequence of buttons, then held the thing to his ear and seemed to listen to it.

"Hello? Hermione! There's a guy here who wants to talk to you. Yeah, I don't think it's about House Elves. Do you want me to put him on the line? Right-o." He held out the device in my general direction.

"What do I do with it?"

"Just hold it like I was doing. You talk into this end and her voice comes out this end. It's really cool!"

I cautiously took the device from him and spoke into one end of it. "Hello?"

"Malfoy? Is that you?" Granger's voice sounded rather tinny, but I could make out what she was saying without much trouble.

"Yes. I need to talk to you. Privately."

"You can't just tell me over the phone?"

"It's called a phone, is it? No, I can't. Is there somewhere I can meet you?"

"Just a minute – _Ron, there's an owl at the window, would you let him in?_ – yes, yes, I suppose you can come to my house. Ask Archie, he can give you directions."

"Very well. I'll see you later." I replaced the phone on its stand and turned to the brightly colored wizard. "You're Archie, I presume?"

"Spot on!"

"Granger said you could give me directions to her house. I need to talk to her there."

"Right." He scrawled an address on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I glanced at it, confirming I could read the messy handwriting, before thanking him and departing the office.

I apparated back to the manor and changed into a sweater and jeans. I paced around the drawing room for several minutes and then finally disapparated, appearing in a forest close to the address Archie had given to me. Surreptitiously, I made my way out of the wood and wandered down the distressingly non-magical streets before spying the house number I was looking for.

I walked up to the door and knocked. Someone yelled inside, and then the door was yanked open to reveal a distinctly unwelcome individual – Ronald Weasley.

"Oh, it's _you_," he said, distaste evident on his features. "I suppose you'll have to come in."

I nodded and swept disdainfully over the threshold (quite an accomplishment in muggle clothes), inspecting the house around me. It was handsomely furnished with reddish wood, and I grudgingly admitted to myself that either Granger or Weasley had decent taste in interior decoration.

The other denizen of the house emerged from a door off the hallway I currently stood in, pushing her bushy hair back from her face.

"Malfoy. How is your project coming?"

"Fine. It's fine." I hesitated, trying to nerve myself up for what I knew I'd have to say next. "Granger…" I swallowed. "I need a favor."

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Chapter IX done! I should have the next one up tomorrow or the day after... Reviews are beautiful things, people.


	10. Chapter X

Jeez. Chapter X. When I started this story I really didn't think it would be anywhere near this long.  


* * *

Granger and Weasley both stared at me as though I'd sprouted another head.

"Wait. _You _want a favor from _us_?" said Weasley, apparently believing his ears had deceived him.

"No. Just from Granger. _You_ are not required," I informed him coldly. He began to look offended, then stopped and shot me an unpleasant grin.

"Right. Never thought I'd see you asking a muggle-born for help, Malfoy. I guess you've finally realized Hermione's smarter than you are, huh?"

I stiffened, feeling my face grow hot. "If that's how you feel about it, I'll leave. I shouldn't have considered that you'd be mature enough to lay aside school grudges for a more important cause. Good day."

I turned and walked towards the door, furious that I'd managed to convince myself to do this. Of _course _Granger wouldn't help me, and I'd been a fool to assume otherwise. I conveniently ignored the fact that _I_ hadn't exactly forgotten my old school grudges either.

"Wait!" I halted. Granger came up beside me. I sneered down at her.

"What do you want?"

"We really do want to hear what you have to say. I'm sorry Ron insulted you, and so is he, _aren't you Ronald?_ What favor do you need?" Her eyes were gleaming with the manic curiosity I had previously seen her direct only at books.

I looked from her to Weasley before deigning to follow them into a comfortable sitting room. Once there, I told them about the developments which had occurred in my project since our ill-advised adventure in Siberia. Concluding with an explanation of Vincent Wulfgar's information about Unbreakable Vows, I sat back and gazed at them over steepled fingers.

"The problem is, the Vow is illegal. The Ministry won't let me use it to get Barty out of Azkaban, and if I decide to do it anyway, they'll put me in prison as well. My less than favored status in the current political state will ensure they won't let me off with a fine. Furthermore, I doubt they'll let Barty out either, and he doesn't have any relatives or similar who are willing to take up his case. I would, but as I'd be in Azkaban myself, that would have very little effect."

"He can't blame anyone else about not having any relatives," Weasley sniggered. I thought this comment was in bad taste, and ignored it.

"So what exactly do you want us to do?" inquired Granger.

I took a deep breath. "I was hoping you might consent to performing the spell for the Vow, and taking up Barty's case afterwards. Weasley, I hadn't thought of this, but you could be the second person he makes the vow to. Both of you are considered heroes after the war, so the Ministry will be lenient with you. They'll almost certainly do no more than fine you, and I can pay you back for that – the Malfoy fortune is still considerable, even after everything that's happened."

I half-expected them to immediately reject my proposal, but Granger at least looked thoughtful. Weasley might also have been thinking, but I had trouble discerning whether or not this was the case due to his typically puzzled-looking expression.

"Why should we do this?" asked Granger eventually, with a carefully neutral air.

"It's ethical," I replied, mentally crossing my fingers. I shared Barty's views about ethics, judging them to be ultimately the products of one's own imagination. From the shrewd look in Granger's eyes, I doubted she believed my explanation, but she made no comment. I was glad; I really had no valid excuse for them to help out with this, and being the noble Gryffindor personalities they were money was unlikely to sway them, but without their assistance my plan would almost certainly fail.

"I'm not sure I want to get mixed up in this," Weasley said uncertainly. "Why don't you get that Auror you know, Stevie, to be the second person?"

"She'd probably be fired. I'd rather not involve her." Weasley nodded in comprehension.

"I'd be willing to do what you ask," stated Granger decisively. "If only for the sake of research; I'd really like to ask Crouch a few questions." By her keen expression, I guessed that a few questions would likely turn out to be numerous hour-long interviews.

"I'm sure he'd be willing to oblige you," I said distractedly. Weasley's comment about Stevie had made me think of something – a far-fetched, possibly ridiculous idea, but one which, assuming it worked, would result in my _not _getting a life sentence in Azkaban. "Granger, do you think there's any chance Potter would be willing to give us some support? He wouldn't have to actually _do _anything, but I'm sure that if he publicly approved of our venture, the Ministry would react with considerably less severity."

"Harry's an Auror too, you know, I see you're not worried about _him _getting fired." Weasley sounded angry. I rolled my eyes.

"Honestly, Weasley, this is _Harry Potter_. They're not going to fire him."

Weasley grumbled a little but couldn't deny I had a point.

"I'll talk to Harry," agreed Granger. I nodded stiffly.

"Good. Well. When shall we do it?"

"Why not now? I'll call Harry immediately," Granger suggested, her eyes glinting with fevered academic enthusiasm.

"No, Hermione, we can't do it now. Remember, I have to pick up those tickets for the match."

"What match?" I inquired.

"The Tornadoes versus the Cannons," said Weasley happily. "I said it all along; the Chudley Cannons will be back! You can't keep a team with talent like that on the sidelines forever!"

I suppressed a sneer, not wishing to antagonize Weasley now that he had agreed to assist me with my plan. Still, it was difficult. 'Talented' was not a word which came to mind when I thought of the Chudley Cannons.

"Alright, what about tomorrow morning, then?" said Granger, looking slightly exasperated at her boyfriend's obsession with his favorite sport.

"Tomorrow morning is fine. Perhaps eight thirty?" I proposed.

"That's fine. See you there," Granger replied, showing me to the door. Weasley waved vaguely at me, his eyes distant. He was probably contemplating his orange-robed Quidditch heroes. I apparated back to the manor, where I set my possessions in order in preparation for the eventuality that Potter would not be willing to give his support to my project, and I would end up in Azkaban. Once this was done, I called Andromeda Tonks over the Floo network and asked if I could visit her and my mother. She was not particularly welcoming, but she agreed I could.

I disapparated from the manor and appeared in Andromeda's kitchen. My aunt was standing next to a long counter, her hand drumming in six over eight time on the granite. "Where's Mother?" I asked her.

"In bed," she replied tersely. I felt a jolt of alarm.

"Is she alright?"

"She's not well. I'm not sure exactly what's wrong; my friend who works at St. Mungo's says it's post traumatic stress and she'll get over it on her own, but he admits he can't make a positive diagnosis without making a proper examination."

"Oh," I said weakly, slumping down in a chair beside the counter. I'd come here intending to tell Mother my plans for tomorrow, and prepare her for the possibility that I'd end up in Azkaban, but considering her condition, it seemed that might not be wise. Suddenly, my plan seemed very selfish.

"Why are you here?" asked my aunt. I told her. She seemed surprised, but didn't comment until I finished the account. "I don't think you should tell Narcissa," she said at last. "She's already too fragile."

"Yeah, I know, but what if I _do _end up being imprisoned? I don't know if she could take the shock."

"We'll deal with that when and if it occurs," Andromeda stated firmly. "Don't give up on this, Draco." It was the first time she'd used my name. "I care about my sister, and I know you do too, but you shouldn't sacrifice your own ambitions for her. Don't forget that your friend Crouch is involved in this, too."

"I won't," I replied, my voice sounding a little funny past the lump in my throat. "I'll just go tell Mother that I… I'll just go talk to her." Andromeda nodded and directed me to the door of my mother's room, then left. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Mother's voice, sounding weak and shaky, informed me I could enter. I did so, and barely suppressed a dismayed cry when I saw how bad she looked. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and her pale skin looked waxy. Her thin hands twitched neurotically as they lay on the sheets.

"H-Hello, Mother."

"Hello, Draco. I'm glad to see you. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see you."

"That's nice of you." Her unnaturally bright eyes looked huge in her thin, almost emaciated face. "Is Lucius well?"

"He's fine. And you?"

"I'm alright. I'm just a little tired, that's why I'm still in bed at this hour. How are the renovations on the manor going?"

"They're going well." I paused. My eyes were beginning to sting, and I knew I had to get out of the room soon or I'd break down. "Mother – you know I love you, right?"

"Of course I do, Draco," she said, looking at me with amusement. "You're acting rather oddly today. Is everything alright?"

"Yes. Yes, perfectly. I have to go, Mother, I'll see you later, okay?"

"You have to leave already? What a shame. Very well, remember to visit again soon."

I left the room, closing the door behind me and leaning against the wall, breathing deeply and steadily until I felt ready to speak to my aunt. She was in the kitchen when I entered, polishing a picture of her dead daughter and son-in-law.

"Look after her, will you?" I asked. Andromeda turned around and nodded, looking at me in a way which made me guess I hadn't managed to entirely erase the traces of my distress at Mother's condition.

She nodded slowly. "Take care of yourself, Draco." I nodded and disapparated. Back in the manor, I collapsed on a chair in the drawing room and rested my face in my hands. I couldn't remove the picture of Mother's bright, fevered eyes and shaking hands from my mind. Without looking up, I waved my wand, and Renie's _Esquisse_ began playing quietly. I didn't get up until late at night, and even then it was only to move to my bed.

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Oh the sap. I don't even _like _Narcissa. Chapter XI should be up within the next few days; just that and one or two more chapters and I'll be done. Huzzah! Oh, and please review. Go on. You know you want to.


	11. Chapter XI

Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter - I've been rather busy lately. Luckily, I think that there will only be one more chapter after this one, so for those of you who have read this far, rejoice! The sappiness is almost at an end. Anyway, Chapter XI.  


* * *

The next morning, exhausted by an almost sleepless night, I flew to Azkaban a half hour before Granger and Weasley were supposed to show up. Trudging slowly up the interminable staircase, I held an internal debate as to whether I should tell my father about his wife's condition. Upon arrival at his cell on the eighth floor, I still had not made up my mind.

"Hello, Father."

"You're here early, Draco."

"Yes. I'm waiting for Granger and Weasley." I explained my plan to use the Unbreakable Vow. Father's expression gradually changed from disbelief, to barely credulous acceptance, to concern at the risk I was taking.

"Are you sure you want to do this? There's no guarantee Potter will give you his support, and even if he does your reputation will sink even lower. I know you've grown attached to Crouch Jr., but this is going rather far."

"I'm aware of that, but I do want to do this. I think perhaps I need to. I just wanted to warn you of the possible outcome, so you'll be prepared in the eventuality that the worst happens. And, Father…" I hesitated. "Mother's… not entirely well. She may not be able to visit if I end up in Azkaban, so if she doesn't show up, don't be surprised. I hope Aunt Andromeda would come and explain if things went badly, but there's no assurance of that."

"What do you mean, not entirely well?"

"She still hasn't recovered from the stress she was under during the war. It could be a while before she does." That was all I was willing to say for the present. I didn't want to worry Father with the thought that there was a definite possibility Mother would _never _recover.

He nodded, looking somewhat distracted by the news. "I see. Well then. You'll have to give me the details after your experiment is finished." He didn't mention that I might not be able to do so. "Good luck, Draco. You know… you know that whether I agree with your ideals or not, you always have my support. Not that it's much use, given my current situation," he added, gesturing at the cell bars with an expression of wry amusement. I smiled faintly and shook his hand once before setting off for the basement.

Stevie was on duty once again, and I exchanged a quick greeting with her, informing her that some acquaintances of mine were going to be joining me here later on.

"Oh yeah? Why are they coming?"

"They want to ask Barty some questions," I replied, mentally thanking Granger for her comment about this yesterday. "I don't imagine it will take too long."

"Alright," Stevie assented easily. I felt slightly guilty about deceiving her, but knew that it was for her own good – if there was any evidence that she'd been involved in a deliberate violation of the law, she'd definitely lose her job.

I walked down to Barty's cell, where he was sitting with his eyes shut, apparently lost in thought. He was not asleep, however, as he opened his eyes and stood up upon hearing my footsteps.

"Draco. You're back."

"Hey. How are you today?"

He gave me a sour look. "What do you expect me to say? I'm mentally skipping through fields of metaphorical daisies?"

"Hardly. Anyway, take a look at this – it's the script for an Unbreakable Vow. I think if you agree to it, we can get you out of here." I handed him the folded piece of parchment on which Vincent Wulfgar had written out the vow. He read silently for a minute or two. I wondered what he was thinking; the vow's contents basically would prevent him from breaking any but the most inconsequential of Ministry laws, and ensure that he could not harm anyone badly, even in self defense. It was a strict set of requirements, but it was still far better than the alternative.

Barty handed the piece of parchment back to me, and I replaced it in my pocket.

"I can't find any loopholes in it," he said.

"Good – I think Vincent did a thorough job removing any, but I'll ask Granger to give it one last check before we use it… that is, if you'll agree to doing this."

He shrugged. "I suppose so. I don't think it will work, but we might as well try it. Granger knows about this? Hermione Granger?"

"Yes; you know her?"

"I taught her Defense Against the Dark Arts for a year, remember?"

"Right, of course. I forgot; you weren't entirely yourself at the time, if you recall."

He grinned. "No. What do you think of House Elves?"

I considered the rather abrupt question. "I don't know all that much about them, to be honest. We used to have a House Elf at the manor, but Potter ended up setting him free. If you want to know more about them, though, you should ask Granger; she works with them all the time."

"I don't, particularly. I was wondering what happened to Winky."

"Who's that?"

He explained about his family's former servant. By the time he had finished, I heard footsteps on the stairs heralding the approach of Weasley and Granger. I met them at the bottom of the steps and introduced them to Stevie, who then accompanied us to Barty's cell and opened the locks. I noted that both Granger and Weasley had retained their wands.

"I'll just leave you to it, then." Stevie walked off down the hall, glancing curiously back before she disappeared around the corner of the staircase. Weasley nodded awkwardly at Barty Crouch.

"Er… I guess I'm volunteering to help out with this," he said uncertainly. Barty nodded and shot him a highly disturbing, maniacal grin. I suspected this was intentional.

"Right," said Granger, bossily. "I've spoken to Harry and he says he'll support us on this one hundred percent. Where's the paper?"

I wordlessly handed her the parchment from Vincent Wulfgar. Barty stared at her as she took it and unfolded it; she hadn't said a word to him since entering the cell.

"Why are you – and you, Weasley – helping out with this?" he asked.

"It's a valuable opportunity for research!" Granger replied enthusiastically. Weasley shrugged and muttered something about just doing what his girlfriend asked.

"Research? What, are you two and Draco going to write a book about Dementors, or something?"

"I have another job, and besides, I haven't been involved in this from the beginning. He has a point, though, Malfoy; you could write a book." She returned to her review of the parchment.

I shrugged. This had not occurred to me before. "I don't really know enough to write a book. I might do some further research after all of this is over, though, assuming I don't end up in prison."

Barty looked at me as though he was about to comment, but I waved my hand at him and said, "Alright, Granger. Let us begin."

I reached out and took Barty's right hand. Granger read out the terms of the vow on the parchment. As Barty agreed to each term, a thin strand of flame coiled out of Granger's wand and twined around our linked hands like a red hot wire. I flinched slightly as the spell burnt my hand.

Granger concluded her recitation, and I snatched my hand back, shaking it vigorously to rid it of the burning sensation caused by the spell. I noted that there were now a great number of thin, pale scars traced across the skin there – this vow had included quite a lot of terms. Glancing at Barty's hand, I saw that it bore a similar pattern of white lines.

"Okay, Ron, your turn," Granger instructed. Weasley hesitantly took hold of Barty's left hand, looking apprehensively at Granger as she once again read the text Vincent Wulfgar had written. He yelped when the magical thread of fire twisted around his fingers. Granger rolled her eyes, and I nearly responded in kind before reminding myself that this was Granger, and she and I did not like one another enough to exchange exasperated looks.

Eventually she finished speaking and folded up the parchment, handing it to me with a nod. Weasley was rubbing his hand and wincing, and Barty gazed with mild interest at the thin scars which now adorned both of his hands.

"Very well, then. Thank you for your assistance," I told Weasley and Granger, attempting to smile at them. It probably looked more like a smirk, because old habits die hard.

"Harry will have informed the Ministry of what we've done by now," Granger said. "We should fly directly there."

"Alright. First let me tell Stevie." I turned to Barty. "Well. Wish us luck, we're off."

"Good luck. You'll need it. _We'll _need it. I still don't think this will work."

"I know. It's worth a try, though, yes?"

"Sure. Thanks anyway." He looked sidelong at Granger and Weasley. "You too, I suppose."

"No problem," said Weasley in an attempt to sound casual. He was still massaging his sore hand. I called Stevie over and she unlocked the cell. Weasley and Granger proceeded up the stairs, presumably with the intention of getting a head start on the way to the Ministry. I waved farewell to Barty as Stevie and I followed as far as the base of the steps.

"Stevie. I have to apologize." I took a deep breath and explained what we'd just done. As I had anticipated, the Auror was not pleased, but she calmed down somewhat after I explained our reasons for not informing the Ministry of our actions. When I mentioned that we had neglected to tell her beforehand of our plans because of the risk it would pose to her job, she turned a little red at the temples.

"Thanks for your concern. Next time, though, forget about my job, okay? Just tell me before you do anything else illegal and stupid."

I agreed that I would do so, although I had no plans of doing anything like this again. Rather relieved at how well Stevie had taken the news, I left Azkaban and flew straight to the manor, apparating from there to the Ministry. As I appeared in the Atrium, I looked around for Granger or Weasley. I didn't see them anywhere. About to head to Granger's office in hopes that they were waiting in there, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned around to see Potter.

"Hello, Malfoy."

"Potter. Where are your slightly criminal friends?"

"They're in a courtroom on the bottom floor. So is the Wizengamot. I suggest we don't keep them waiting."

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Alright. ONE MORE CHAPTER! As always, reviews are most welcome.


	12. Chapter XII

Huzzah, the last chapter is done. Thanks very much to everyone who's reviewed so far, and to anyone who may review in the future; as always, your input fills me with happy, sappy joy.  


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Potter and I took the lift as far down as it would carry us, and then proceeded on foot to where Weasley and Granger were waiting outside the door to a courtroom. The latter of my two fellow lawbreakers looked rather anxious, while the former appeared extremely disgruntled.

"What's up with you, Weasley?" I inquired. His frown deepened.

"The Chudley Cannons aren't playing. Their keeper and two of the chasers are ill with Dragon Pox. Some bloody team from Edinburgh is playing the Tornadoes instead."

I was slightly bewildered by his preoccupation with a substandard Quidditch team when he was about to go on trial for a serious breach of magical law. "Well, that's not a _tragedy_, is it? You can still go to the game, I'm sure it'll be decent at least."

He snorted. "Not worth it without the Cannons, is it? And I've already bought two tickets."

"Two?"

"Yeah, Hermione was going to come with me. I asked Harry but he said –"

"That I'm busy. The other Aurors and I have got our hands full at the moment," Potter finished. "Anyway, shouldn't we be going in? A late arrival won't help your case at all, I can tell you that."

"No, you're right. Let's go," I agreed, much as it galled me to approve of a suggestion of Potter's.

We passed through the door into the courtroom, and I halted abruptly, staring around at the all-too-familiar tiers of benches lining the walls, the ominous chain-covered chair at the focus of the room. No one had told me the trial would be taking place here, where my father had been sentenced to five years in prison, where my mother and I had only just managed to escape the same fate, and, I now realized, where many years ago Barty Crouch Senior had sent his own son to Azkaban. I took a few minutes to regain my composure, and then proceeded to the center of the courtroom.

Weasley, Granger and I stood in a nervous triangle around the chair. Potter went to sit on one of the long benches along the left side of the room. I looked up at the man sitting in the very middle of the bench straight ahead; Kingsley Shacklebolt, the current Minister of Magic. I knew that Shacklebolt was also a former Auror, a fact which did not fill me with confidence; he was less likely to be inclined to leniency where I, a former Death Eater, was concerned.

"Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley," announced Shacklebolt in a deep, slow voice which rolled impressively around the room, "you are accused of performing an illegal spell, namely the Unbreakable Vow, without extenuating circumstances and while fully in control of your actions. Do any of you deny this charge?"

I was silent, as was Granger. I heard Weasley mumbling something about the Cannons, but he did not refute Shacklebolt's words.

"Very well. What is your justification for your actions? Mr. Weasley, you may speak first."

I glanced at Weasley, alarmed. I had not anticipated that all three of us would have to testify during the trial, and judging by the look on his face, I doubted he had either. However, he cleared his throat and stepped forward slightly, looking Shacklebolt in the eyes.

"Er," he said, and stopped. I shut my eyes and silently willed him to continue speaking, even if he couldn't say anything of substance.

"Er," he began again, and I managed to look back up as he went on, "I agreed to help out with the Unbreakable Vow because it was ethical, sort of. The right thing to do." His voice grew in confidence. "Yeah, so, as I said before, it was the only thing we could do in good conscience. I guess Harry already gave you a copy of the Vow, so you know how it goes and everything." We had made a word-for-word copy of the Vow for Potter to give the Ministry when he announced our plan. "Anyway, that's why I did it." Weasley finished a touch weakly, but it could have been much worse.

I gave a mental sigh of relief as Shacklebolt nodded and turned to Granger. "Ms. Granger?"

"Mostly I agree with the reasons Ron gave," she said. Her voice was slightly higher than usual, but she showed no other signs of distress. "The reason for imprisoning people isn't supposed to be that they deserve it; it's supposed to be to keep others safe. Now that Crouch has made the Unbreakable Vow, there's no logical reason not to let him out. I'm not saying it's a viable option for every prisoner in Azkaban, but in this particular case I do feel it was justified." She backed up a few steps, breathing deeply. Shacklebolt looked at me, and I was unhappy to note that his expression was much less friendly than it had been when he addressed the other two.

"Mr. Malfoy, you may speak."

"Thank you, Minister," I replied, ensuring my tone was as courteous as humanly possible. "As Ms. Granger said, the purpose of our justice system is to ensure the safety of innocent people. However, I fully recognize the reality of the situation, which is that the public does demand some form of retribution against those who violate its moral code, whether or not they pose a threat. In this case, I believe that desire for retribution has been more than fulfilled, as Barty Crouch Jr. was trapped in a state generally agreed to be worse than death for over three years, a state which is considered by the Ministry to be the equivalent of the muggle death penalty." I was glad I'd listened to Granger ranting about her Muggle Studies class in the third year; referencing non-magical law might give the Wizengamot a more favorable impression of me, considering my former pureblood-superiority leanings.

"This country has recently abolished the use of the death penalty," commented Shacklebolt, mildly, and I mentally kicked myself for bringing up a subject of which my knowledge was sketchy at best. The Minister continued, "You have stated a nicely convincing case for releasing Barty Crouch Jr. from Azkaban, but you have not offered justification for your own actions. While your motivations may have been admirable, they do not give you legal permission to break Ministry law."

"I'm aware of that. Nevertheless, in this case I feel that the importance of taking my course of action superseded the importance of complying with the law. I will accept whatever consequences you feel are reasonable without complaint." I stepped back and clasped my hands tightly behind my back. I sincerely hoped that Potter would come through on his offer of support.

The aforementioned Auror stood up from his place on the bench. "Minister, may I have your permission to speak?"

"Go ahead, Mr. Potter."

"I wanted to inform you that all three of the accused had and have my complete support in this. Although I wasn't technically involved in any of their illegal actions, I agree with their reasoning and would have taken part in the plan if they had asked. Just please take my opinion as an Auror into consideration; I don't believe I'm the only Auror who feels this way." He looked around at his colleagues, a few of whom nodded in assent to his statement. Shacklebolt looked appraisingly at them and then nodded.

"The views of you and your colleagues will be taken into consideration, Mr. Potter. No one has anything further to say?" There was silence. "In that case, I propose the following: a fine of five thousand galleons each for Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley, a fine of thirty thousand galleons for Mr. Malfoy due to his prior offenses before this court, and the immediate release of Mr. Barty Crouch Jr. from Azkaban, due to insufficient justification for keeping him there." Shacklebolt smiled slightly at this last, possibly in amusement at the overly large percentage of time taken by our arguing on that point.

"All those in favor of the proposed sentence?" I feverishly tried to count the number of Wizengamot members who raised their hands at this, but I did not have time to finish before Shacklebolt continued. I thought it had been about half.

"All those not in favor?" The remaining occupants of the benches raised their hands. It looked like the same amount of people to me.

Shacklebolt bent down to speak to the court scribe, who I found vaguely familiar. The young man looked up, and I recognized him as Ernie Macmillan, who had been in Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, in my year. Macmillan whispered something to Shacklebolt, who nodded, then straightened up and declared, "Very well. Sentence approved."

I leaned on the chain-covered chair in relief as the members of the Wizengamot filed out of the courtroom. Forty thousand galleons was a relatively enormous fine, but it was not unaffordable, and I wasn't going to Azkaban. Potter came down from the his place on the bench and joined Granger and Weasley in a sickening display of camaraderie, slapping them on the back and generally being chummy. Eventually his enthusiasm for making me ill ceased, and he and the others turned to face me.

"Congratulations, Malfoy," Potter said somewhat coolly. I nodded, inwardly quite pleased that he hadn't seen fit to include me in the recent, joyfully nauseating celebration, and that his attitude towards me did not seem to have altered.

"Thank you for your assistance in this matter," I replied, nodding at him. He smiled at his two friends, then jogged off after the other Aurors who had just left the room, calling back over his shoulder that he had a meeting.

"Thank you as well," I told Granger, shaking her extended hand.

"You're welcome. You should really think about going somewhere with your Dementor research, you know. There would certainly be no competition for the job."

I smirked. "Right. Well, see you, Granger – or not. I hope not."

She smiled slightly in return and left the room as well. Weasley and I looked awkwardly at one another, then shook hands very briefly.

"Don't worry, I'll pay your fines," I assured him caustically, unable to resist the urge to remind him of his inferior financial status. "Thanks for your help."

"Right. Yeah," he replied gloomily. He was rubbing a pair of tickets between his fingers, and I realized, with some astonishment, that he was thinking about the Chudley Cannons again. That man was truly obsessive.

"What're you going to do with those?" I asked with a sudden flash of inspiration.

He gave a melodramatic sigh. "Chuck them, I suppose."

"Can I have them? I _am _paying five thousand galleons of what should be your fine," I reminded him.

"Sure, whatever you like," he said indifferently. "Bloody Tornadoes have no idea what the real spirit of the game is. I mean, anyone can play Quidditch, but only a few have what it takes to really get into the thing."

"Yes, Weasley. Goodbye." I left him musing on the wonderful qualities of the Chudley Cannons, and returned to the Atrium, apparating from there to the manor. I lit a fire and tossed in a quantity of Floo powder, stating the destination as my aunt Andromeda's house. Leaning down into the fire, I found myself gazing out at Andromeda's sitting room. My aunt was reading on a couch, but she got up at once when she saw me.

"Draco – how did it go?"

"Brilliantly. I have to run, just wanted to give you the good news. I got off with a fine, and they agreed to let Barty out of Azkaban."

"That's wonderful; will you be visiting soon to tell Narcissa about all of this?"

"Yes, within the next day or two. For now, I should go and tell Father."

"Of course. Goodbye, Draco." As I bade her farewell in reply, a small but genuine smile crossed her features. I flew off to Azkaban with the happy thought that, in time, Aunt Andromeda and I might get to like one another after all.

Arriving at the gate to Azkaban, I laid my broom, and the extra one I'd brought, aside and stood still while the Aurors checked me for concealment spells. "Have Barty Crouch Jr.'s release papers shown up yet?" I inquired of Dawlish, who was on duty.

"What? They're letting him out? He's a mental – are you quite sure?"

"Yes," I replied impatiently. I gazed out into the grey sky, waiting for an owl to appear. One did, in a few minutes; apparently the sea breeze had thrown it somewhat off course, causing it to turn up several minutes after my own arrival. Dawlish opened the envelope it carried and read carefully through the papers contained within, checking several times to ensure they were genuine. At last, he handed them to me with a grunt.

"They're real. Give them to Stevie Paulson, in the basement."

"Right." I hurried upstairs to inform Father briefly of the outcome of my plan. He was happy to hear it had succeeded, although he did not find the forty thousand galleon fine very pleasing. From there, I went down the stairs to the basement, almost tripping when I unwisely tried taking three steps at a time.

Upon arriving in the basement, I located Stevie chatting with the McCarter sisters. She followed me over to the base of the steps, where I presented the release papers. She read them, a grin gradually spreading across her features.

"Fantastic!" she exclaimed as she finished. "Congratulations, Draco, it's worked out."

"It wouldn't have without your help," I told her sincerely. "Thanks, really."

"My pleasure," she replied. "Can he leave with you, now? I mean, do you need extra transport or something?"

"No, I brought an extra broom. Let's go."

We headed off down the hall. As we walked I reflected how much my life had changed since I'd first met Barty in Azkaban. I still regretted what had happened in the past, but now I felt like there might be something worthwhile in the future. Maybe I would take Granger's advice, and find out more about Dementors; a career didn't seem so impossible to face anymore.

We reached the cell that was our destination, and Stevie began removing the protective spells on the door. Barty looked at me with a mixture of resignation and anticipated disappointment, and possibly a glimmer of hope. I grinned at him and pulled two pieces of parchment out of my pocket.

"Hello, Barty. Want to go watch a Quidditch match with me?"

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The End. Hopefully Kingsley was decently in character. Anyway, here's one last, heart-wrenching request for reviews. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!


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